


Let’s make art

by DorMarunt



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Brave little mitochondrion, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Our guys are learning Teh Feelingz!, Roleplay, Spanking, Subdrop, Subspace, Waxplay, alternate timeline I guess, knifeplay(ish?), mild degradation kink, smut with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: Kinky smut. I regret nothing.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 146
Kudos: 248





	1. Saint Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

> This little dirty thing wanted to be written since a couple of fics ago, and it finally nagged me enough to get it out.
> 
> Note: please practice safe sex - in all forms; breath play is dangerous! This is a fic, and Andres is a perfect genius who does nothing wrong, etc.

Early that afternoon when Andrés took out the coil of rope from his bag, Martín thought it was a prop for some robbery. As one would. He paid it no mind, and went back to his books and maps and sketches, immersed in the feeling of an impending revelation.

Hours later, it clicked: of course, the water treatment plant! Martín got up excitedly, scribbling in his notebook until he reached Andrés’ room, putting the pencil in his mouth so he could open the door. He found himself biting down on the pencil in shock as soon as he comprehended what he saw inside: Andrés, topless and on his knees, a red loop of rope hanging around his neck. He was looking down, tying a knot. Martín threw the notebook and bolted for his friend, making him startle.

“What?” Andrés exclaimed. “Knock first, jesus fuck Martín!”

“Are you okay? What the fuck are you doing?” Looking at the scene in front of him, something felt strangely out of place and Martín couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

Andrés sighed and sat back on his heels. “I think I need your help. This is a little more complicated than I thought.”

Martín looked almost scandalized, and that’s when Andrés’ eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Oh! Oh, no, no!” He laughed. “No, I’m not trying to hang myself. Why would I do that? No, this is shibari, japanese knot art. I fucked the most interesting lady a couple of nights ago and she taught me how to do a couple of these absolutely beautiful knots - well, to be honest, she did most of the work herself - and I’ve been reading a lot about it since. It’s fascinating, and so,  _ so _ versatile. Here.” He handed the still alarmed Martín the book that was laying on the bed beside him, open at a series of illustrations. At first, Martín wanted to ask, “ _ why is that lady hanging herself?” _ but the more he studied the images, the more intrigued he became. 

“Why?” he asked. 

“Oh Martín, it’s hypnotic! And beautiful, and captivating. I can’t put it into words well. It brings on this calm that overtakes you, but it’s also electric, constantly humming within you. It’s so fucking complicated, though! I have tied people before, but with nowhere near this amount of... finesse.” 

“So,” he paused for a second. “You do this to yourself?”

Andrés cocked his head. “I am, now. Next time, I want to be the one that does all the work. I’ve already decided on a specific harness, let me show you,” he motioned to Martín, who gave him back the book, and he flipped back and forth through the pages until he found the right one. Getting to his feet, he approached Martín to show him the page he had in mind.  _ Yes, that’s a harness alright _ , Martín thought. He used to think they only came in leather, but certainly he hadn’t met the right people. Without even noticing, his hands started to make little twisting movements in the poses he scanned.

“So?”

“Hmm?” Martín looked up from the book. He couldn’t understand why, but he also found himself drawn by the strange beauty of it.

“Since you’re so worried about my safety and are willing to help. Will you let me practice on you?” He took the rope from around his neck and carefully worked on undoing the knot. “Come on, remember when you taught me how to tango, all those years ago? Think of this as a different kind of dance.”

“Oh, so now you’re a poet too?” Martín snorted, eyes focused back on the book as he was flipping through.

“No but look at it - and tell me if this isn’t art. Help me make  _ art _ , Martín!” 

“Because Michelangello sculpted David the first day he held a chisel, sure.” Andrés scoffed, but Martín continued. "Make art, sure, but learn to hold the pencil before you dream of drawing portraits. Yes I know you can actually draw portraits, bad metaphor. I'm not a poet either. I mean that is a beautiful harness, sure, but you won’t be able to do it on your first try.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

“I wasn’t challenging you,” he laughed softly. “but I do think you should start smaller. Learn basic knots before you start with the more intricate designs.” He stopped Andrés as he opened his mouth, surely to protest again. “I know you know how to make knots, but I’m not talking about that; this isn’t securing a yacht to a dock or some hostage to a chair. You said it yourself, this is art. Take a look at this. This seems more easily achievable, right?” 

The two men looked at the image: the woman had her hands behind her back, her elbows tied to each other with loops connected by a length of rope that wrapped around itself like a hangman’s knot. 

“But the other one showcased the breasts in such an exquisite way!” Andrés protested. Martín rolled his eyes, unable to understand so many men’s obsession with breasts. “Well. Fine. I guess I can see the appeal of having the breasts more… there,” he gestured vaguely, because he absolutely couldn’t, “but I’m sure the woman will be equally exposed like this, too.”

“Martín.”   
  
“Hm?” He asked, eyes still in the book. 

“Will you help me?”

Martín thought about it for a second. He had worn a harness once or twice, with some kinky partners, but he couldn’t say he was into it particularly. But this was Andrés, and he  _ was _ into  _ him _ . 

“So you want to tie me up.” he said, uncertain.

“Yes. Basically.”

Martín took a deep breath, trying to come up with reasons to do just about anything else. However, out of the wealth of thoughts whizzing through his head, he found himself saying only, “Sure.”

“Alright so. Let’s go by the desk, there’s more light there.” The two men walked to the desk sat by the window. “Put the book down. Face the other way, obviously.” Martín turned his back and put his arms behind him. “Shirt off.” 

Martín turned, questioningly. “The rope is sure to move on the fabric and I don’t want a sloppy knot. Come on carino, no need to be shy, I’ve seen you without your shirt before,” he teased.

Martín unbuttoned his shirt thinking of the sheer absurdity of what was happening, and placed it on the back of the chair next to him. After one more glance at Andrés, he went back in position, trying to find the most neutral place for his mind to go. The other man stepped close to him, reading aloud the instructions to the first image.

“‘ _ Form a Lark’s head with the bight near, but not touching one side. _ ’”

Andrés measured the rope in his hands and wrapped it around Martín’s arms. He leaned forward and looked at the book. Taking a step back, he wrapped the tails of the rope on opposite sides of the fingers, as the instructions said. His moves were slow, light, and, strangely, not at all tentative. He huffed some air and undid one of the loops, and then the other. “I did this wrongly. Wait.” 

As if Martín was going anywhere. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

“I still have to look at the pictures though, don’t I? But thank you,  _ so helpful _ .” And Martín felt the smile in the other man’s voice.

Then he resumed, wrapping the length of rope once more, giving the tiniest of pulls here and there and making Martín realize it might have been a very bad idea to get himself, well, tied up in this. Turns out he very much  _ was _ into this, and really started to run through his choices. 

“Relax,” came a calm voice from behind him. “Breathe into it.” His movements fell in a slow cadence, and Martín felt himself exhale tension he wasn’t even aware he was holding. The silence in the room was only punctuated by the rhythmic click-clack of the clock on the wall and the slip of sliding rope. It was indeed hypnotic, and Martín felt oddly  _ light _ .

Eventually, the movements stopped. “Hmm.” Andrés growled, giving the rope between Martín’s arms a tug. “Beautiful.”

_ Fuck _ . Martín thought to himself, shifting a little to adjust the tightness in his pants. That’s when Andrés let go of the rope and stepped over to face him, intrigued. After measuring Martín head to toe, he gave him a meaningful eyebrow raise looking pointedly at his crotch. Martín felt the need to offer an explanation. “I was never into being tied up, so trust me this is a first.”

“And are you getting tied up often? I didn’t know you were a pervert.”

“Well it’s happened a couple of times, but not like this, it’s usually ties or belts. Or handcuffs.” He stopped before going too far with the details. “But they were never my thing. And it doesn’t make me a pervert.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pervert too.” Andrés smiled the most wicked smile.. If Martín didn’t know any better, he’d say the other man was flirting with him. “I just didn’t peg you for the kinky type, I don’t know why.”

“Well I figured you’d be plenty kinky. Definitely a dom, am I right?”

Andrés laughed in earnest. “No, not exactly a dom. But I  _ do _ like having control. You wouldn’t believe how many women are into that.”

“Stop talking to me about women, Andrés.” Martín sighed.

“Stop giving me orders,  _ Martín _ .” 

In the stillness of the room, Martín was sure his heartbeat was louder than the monotone of the clock.

“I am giving the orders. Martín.” Andrés said, voice low and gruff.

“What are you doing?”

“You know very well what I’m doing. Do you want me to stop?” He came closer to Martín’s ear. “Because I will stop if you want. There’s no fun in doing this if you’re not willing.”

“Don’t.”

“Are you willing?”

“Yes.” 

“Hmmm” Andrés hummed, low, and went to pull the chair from under the desk, scraping its legs against the hardwood floors. He sat and leaned back, legs spreading wide. “Good. You said you weren’t into being tied up.  _ Wrongly _ , that much is obvious. What things  _ are _ you into then? Don’t be shy. Tell me.”

“I’m really not big into kink.” 

"I see something that says otherwise."

"I have no explanation."

"No? None at all?"

_ Don't make me say it _ , Martín thought. He sighed. "What are we doing, Andrés.” 

A smile spread on Andrés’ face; crooked, devious. 

“Well right now I’m playing with you. But I want to play a different game, if you want to participate.” 

Martín could only stare back, but it was clear that he was more than willing to play. Andrés continued.

“We’ve known each other for almost a decade, haven’t we? We’ve traveled the world together, you’ve been by my side through thick and thin. Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me? I see you, Martín. I know what you want.”

“But what does-”   


“Please don’t be so pedantic as to ask what this means.” When he got no response, he cocked his head back, inadvertently giving Martín a view of his neck that he instantly enjoyed way too much. “It means that you want something, and I want something, and we can help each other. For example, I want you to sit up straight,” he said calmly, but with such command in his voice that Martín felt something shift in the air. Without thinking about it, Martín straightened his back. 

“Good.” They stayed like that for the longest seconds of his life, before Andrés resumed. “Spread your legs.” Martín felt himself flush at the command but found himself moving his legs shoulder width apart. 

“Now turn.” 

And he did. The storm of thoughts in his head were starting to quiet down, strangely, as he turned his back to Andrés and started staring into nothingness. Once more, silence filled the space, and Martín felt so exposed, so  _ seen _ . 

He heard the chair move, a little scraping of wood against wood, and then the other man got up and approached him. He stopped so close that he could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck. “That’s such a beautiful knot, and it looks so good on you. The red suits you.” He trailed a finger just below Martín’s shoulder blades, so soft that it was mostly guessed, not felt. Suddenly, Martín felt this deep yearning to be touched, to feel those hands on him. But Andrés had other plans.

“Face me.”

He did, but found it oddly difficult to look into Andrés’ eyes. Without thinking, he looked down.

“Look at me.” And how could he not. They locked eyes, and Martín felt his heart fill with so much warmth and want, he felt it would burst.

“On your knees.”

The elbow tie made Martín’s movements wobbly, unpracticed, but the other man made no move to help him. Andrés stood motionless, looking at Martín, not breaking eye contact. “Don’t sit on your heels. There.” he instructed, his voice seemingly connected to Martín’s muscles.

That new position gave him a perfect view of Andrés’ crotch.  _ Of course _ . He tried really hard not to look, jaw tightened as he felt himself grow even harder, getting more and more uncomfortable. Andrés didn’t move for a long time, and when he did, what felt like ages later, he simply said, “Don’t move.” and stepped away, behind him. Martín heard the footsteps slowly move away, to the other side of the room, and what was surely a stopper being removed from a bottle. Sure enough, it sounded like Andrés was fixing himself a drink. Mere seconds later, there was the sound of a glass against the table, and Andrés returned.

“Stand up.” 

This was somewhat easier to achieve, even though Martín still felt like he was moving through water. Suddenly Andrés grabbed the rope and gave a small push, making the other man take a step forward. “To the mirror.” They moved forward together, completely in step as if in a weird dance. “Now stop.”

Martín stopped just in front of the ornate mirror on the wall, catching glimpses of Andrés behind him. 

“You still haven’t answered me.” Upon catching Martín’s questioning look in the mirror, he continued. “What are you into. Speak.” he commanded when Martín didn’t answer.

“Uhm. I enjoy-” He found that he couldn’t say anything out loud, like anything he could say seemed too cheap, too vulgar. 

“Say it. And look at yourself in the mirror as you do.”

It flew out of his mouth before he could even form the thought right. “I enjoy being fucked.”

Andrés’ satisfied smile could be heard in his voice. “Hmm. What else?”

“I’ve always loved guys who were a little,” he cleared his throat, ”rough.” Silence settled for a second before he continued. “A couple of times I was choked, and that was way more pleasurable than I expected.” He found himself unbelievably aroused, willing to say more, so much more, but seeing himself in the mirror brought on an overpowering feeling of shame that made him hesitate for a second. 

“More.” Andrés said, simply, and Martín complied.

“I love worshipping a guy’s cock.” He felt a shiver dart through his spine as he heard himself say it out loud. “It always renders them so pliant, so defenseless. You have so much power on your knees-” Before getting to finish his thought, Andrés pulled on the elbow tie, making Martín lose his balance and lean into the other man’s body. He felt a hand finally -  _ finally! _ \- touch him, his hip, then his abdomen, then up his chest, until fingers wrapped loosely around his neck. 

“Don’t stop.”

Martín felt the sting of tears as he opened his eyes wider, taking in the picture that was himself - deeply flushed, panting,  _ indecent _ . And Andrés’ hand around his neck - not pressing, just lightly touching, and yet very much there, present. He continued, his voice hoarse. 

“I love watching a guy come. Everybody feels release differently, and yet every face going through an orgasm feels essentially the same, almost like in a religious reverie.” The hand clutching the rope let go and moved to circle his waist, then - maddeningly - unzipped his pants and boldly slid in. Martín gasped and stopped, forgetting what he wanted to say next. 

“Keep your eyes in the mirror. And don’t stop.”

“Umm,” Martín tried really hard to pull any thoughts together, to form sentences. When Andrés’ hand slipped inside his boxers, clutching his cock, he could only moan. He was thankful to be held upright by the other man, bodies pressed so tightly he could feel thigh muscles tense and relax under Andrés’ clothes. He tried to resume his sentence, his voice barely audible. “I like watching guys masturbate. You’d think it was something trivial but  _ oh _ !” he moaned, “I find it to be a very powerful image, I can’t-” He was unable to do more than moan and he stopped trying to finish his sentence.

“Open your eyes. Mirror.” 

Martín did, and found the blue eyes looking back at him, a stranger’s. So close to a religious reverie, he thought. Andrés removed his hand from around Martín’s neck and moved it to cover his mouth, pinching his nose with his thumb. Meanwhile, his other hand continued to pump Martín’s cock, who was already starting to feel the familiar tightening gather in his thighs. 

The first time Martín tried to breathe but found his airways obstructed, he panicked. He saw as much in the mirror. But then his eyes unfocused and he found it so easy to give in and to enjoy the sensations overtaking his body, overwhelming him. It was as if everything congregated around his loins, shots of lightning echoing randomly across his body as the other man’s hand jerked him off, no hint of finesse in his movements. Through the thumps of his own heartbeat that echoed in his ears, he heard a last command. 

“Let go. Let go, Martín. Come.”

So he did - he let go. For an instant, he felt weightless, almost separate to his body. He felt free, and the feeling was so overwhelming that he felt tears rolling down his cheeks. It was the heat of the tears that brought him back to himself, to reality, to the click-clack-click-clack of the clock in the room, the labored breathing of Andrés behind him, around him. Before realizing what was happening, he came, shooting hotly, hips thrusting erratically. 

He saw himself in the mirror, the very image of debauchery, his face wet with tears and mouth open, desperately drawing breaths once Andrés took his hand away.

This time, Andrés held him gently as he helped him to the floor - to his knees at first, then carefully helped him lie on his side on the floor. 

They lay there for a while, catching their breaths. It was Andrés who moved first, motioning Martín to sit and working to carefully undo the knots between his hands. Eventually, he asked.

“What was that at the end? You seemed to tune out for a few seconds.”

“Hngh?” Martín tried to be coherent but failed at first. “I don’t know.” 

“You should add dirty talk. And obviously dominance. To the list of things you’re into,” Andrés clarified. 

“Yes.” Martín said simply. He had quite a number of things to reevaluate, that much was sure.


	2. Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín is dropping pretty hard, and Andrés is clumsily - though a bit poorly - helping him through.

The unbearable lightness that had overtaken him earlier had suddenly twisted itself into a knot situated right at the center of his chest. It must have been the endorphins, or serotonin or… Something, but Martín felt a whole new level of spent. 

Andrés’ soft voice caught him by surprise. “Are you okay to get up?” He asked, and offered Martín a hand when he got a nod in response. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Martín nodded once more and grabbed onto the helping hand to get up, the shakiness in his legs taking him by surprise. Despite all the thoughts whirring around in his head, he found that he couldn't focus on any one thing for long enough, every thought seemingly slipping away from him in seconds, to be quickly replaced by another, and another, and another.

“Stop that.” The other man pulled him into an embrace. “Stop thinking, I can almost hear all that noise in your head.  _ Tranquilo. _ Let’s get you cleaned up, come,” he motioned, and led Martín by the hand to the door of the bathroom. Andrés turned on the light in the smaller room - neon flashing painfully in Martín’s eyes - and walked the both of them in. He directed Martín to the sink but, mercifully, made him turn away from the mirror. “Lean back. Let me.” 

Martín felt strangely broken but accepted the help, a slight twinge of shame burning the top of his ears when Andrés pulled his pants and boxers down. “We’ll talk, but I’m sure a hot shower will do wonders until then.” He started unbuttoning his own pants, when, noticing the look in Martín’s eyes, he stopped. “I want to get in the shower with you, you don’t seem entirely okay. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

Martín couldn’t explain it, that instant feeling of alarm that he felt the second he saw the other man start to undress. It may have been irrational, sure, but he wanted to be alone. 

“No, I got it.”

“I really don’t think I should leave you alone right now.”

“Please.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”   
  
And that was the truth. Martín just needed some space, and Andrés finally seemed to accept his protests, picking up the discarded clothes from the floor. “I’ll put these in the wash. But then I’ll be right outside this door if you need me. Do you want it opened or closed?”

“Closed, please.”

“Alright. Call for me if you need me.  _ Please _ .” Andrés’ voice was warm, but with a hint of worry. Martín could not understand the complete switch in the other man’s personality, but then again, very few things seemed to make sense anymore. 

As the door closed shut, Martín sighed deeply.  _ Shower, alright _ . He got in, closing the glass doors behind him, then changing his mind and opening one just a tad. He didn’t want to feel locked.  _ Breathe in, breathe out, in, out, _ he kept telling himself as he felt his throat narrow, _ just breathe _ . He tried really hard to keep his breath steady, controlled, but failed miserably and soon found himself close to hyperventilating. He half wanted to call Andrés, but at the same time he felt he wasn’t ready to face him just yet. Eventually he turned on the water, flinching when the first drops hit his skin. 

After a poor excuse for a clean-up he got out, wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom. Sure enough, Andrés was right outside the door, looking worried. 

“Do you feel any better?”

Martín half shook his head no, half shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you need?”

“Sleep.” he said, simply. He headed for the door when Andrés stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You should sleep here tonight, I want to make sure you’re okay.”

_ Might as well, _ Martín thought. He wasn’t feeling able to walk to his room, and if it were up to him, he would’ve curled up right there, on the floor. He made for the bed, then slumped in and curled on his side, facing away from Andrés.

“Have some orange juice. Are you hungry?” Martín turned to Andrés and got up, accepting the glass and downing it in seconds. “Do you want more?”

Martín shook his head no. 

“I’m serious about the food, I can bring you something from the kitchen.”

"I'm fine, I just need to sleep." He sat back down, rolling away and wondering wildly where Andrés would sleep since he was occupying his bed.  _ Oh _ , he realised, when Andrés got in bed right next to him, pulling the covers over them both. He felt exhausted, completely touched out and fell asleep in a manner of minutes.

*

Martín woke up in pitch darkness, a foul taste in his mouth and a burning pressure in his bladder. He looked around, disoriented, and saw that he wasn’t alone in his bed - or indeed in his own bed at all - and then he remembered the previous evening.  _ Right _ . He got up, carefully not to rouse the other man, and the cool air of the room reminded him that he went to bed basically naked - the towel having long gotten twisted off and lost under the covers. 

The pressure in his bladder took precedence, urgent and insistent, so he navigated his way to the bathroom, took a long and satisfying piss enjoying the complete darkness and then came back to the room. He wondered for a second whether he should go back to his own room and sleep there, or at least to get some pants. Unlike the previous night however, the thought of being all alone disquieted him so he got back in the bed, under the covers, and shamelessly huddled into the warmth of the body asleep next to him. 

*

The next time he opened his eyes daylight was coming in through the curtains. Beside him, Andrés, leaning against the headboard, put down whatever book he was holding and greeted him with a warm smile.

“Good morning. It’s close to 11.” He added when he saw Martín try to read the clock behind him. “I didn’t want to wake you up, you looked like you really needed the sleep. How do you feel?”

“Overwhelmed.”

Andrés just nodded curtly. “Do you want to sit here and talk? Or over breakfast and coffee?”

It seemed like there was no going around the talking and Martín absolutely did not want to do it before coffee. “Breakfast. I need some clothes.” he added after moving under the covers and remembering that he was naked.

“I brought some from your room, they’re on the chair. I’ll- I’ll let you get ready, see you in the kitchen.”

Martín waited for Andrés to leave before he got out of bed and in the clothes left out for him on the chair. The very chair that Andrés had sat in the previous night, sprayled out, while they did... whatever the fuck it was that they did. After a brief visit to his own bathroom to brush his teeth, he eventually joined Andrés in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel like doing much today. Hope that toast and jam is okay.” 

It was. Martín sat down, grabbing a piece of toast and accepting the cup that was handed to him.

“I told you I’m not exactly a dom.” Andrés said eventually. “Fuck, I thought about this all morning and I still can’t find the right words. I’m not exactly experienced, I’ve only done this a couple of times but it was never like this. I got so caught up in everything that I stopped thinking. Did I hurt you? Are you okay? ”

Martín set down the coffee and rubbed his eyes. “I guess? It was intense.” One question still nagged at him, and he felt that it was the time to finally put it out there. “What does this mean? For us.”

He knew it was not an easy question, not by a longshot. He knew, even before Andrés had confirmed it himself, that the other man was aware of his feelings. It wasn’t like he was shy about them. 

Their relationship had been effortless from the start, Martín remembered. The first time they talked it felt like they were catching up, not getting to know each other. They quickly fell into sync, orbiting each other, completing one another, and without even being aware that it was happening, Martín found himself completely and inexorably in love. It wasn’t mutual, that much he knew, but Andrés never acted like he minded - what’s more, he leaned into it, accepting it as one would a precious gift, but never truly addressing it. 

“I don’t know.” Andrés finally said, You know that I love you, right?”

Sure, he’d said it before, high on the adrenaline of a successful escape from a seemingly hopeless situation or in a drunken stupor at the end of many bottles. Either way Martín knew it, he felt that he was loved, but was also painfully aware that it was not the kind of love he craved. 

Andrés got up from his chair to get the last couple of slices of bread from the toaster. His back turned, he continued. “I wasn’t aware that I could feel like that, though. With you.” He turned and leaned against the counter. “You know I like women. A lot.”

And Martín did. Andrés was not the kind of man that women usually said no to, and he always relished in the attention. 

“But I also like exploring that side of you. Of us. To be honest I have no idea what it means, or if it means anything. But I would like to take things further with you. If you want.”

Exploring that side of him. The submissive side? Martín wasn’t sure, but he was more than willing to go as far as Andrés would allow.

Andrés took a quick glance at his watch. “Will you be okay if I head out for a while? I know the timing is awful, but I have to meet my brother. We were supposed to meet earlier but I told him to wait, I wanted to have a chance to talk to you when you woke up. He said we would meet some Russians this week and we have a few monetary details to discuss before we do.”

Andrés slipped back instantly into work mode, and Martín was grateful for the change in topics. He nodded. He remembered there was something he wanted to tell Andrés the previous day, before  _ everything _ , but dropped it, feeling the need to be, once more, left alone with his thoughts.

Once Andrés was out, he went back to his notes - Andrés had helpfully brought his notebook to the work desk in the living room - but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t really focus on work. After a couple of hours of reading and re-reading the same pages, he put everything away and went to his own room to nap. 

Night time, once more, and Martín woke up, grateful to find himself in his own bed. He went to the kitchen lead almost entirely by the growling in his stomach and was met with the overwhelming scent of something delicious roasting in the oven. 

“It should be done any minute now.” came a voice from behind him. Andrés. “How are you?”

Martín sort of wished he would stop asking him that all the time, but at the same time enjoyed knowing that the other man cared. 

“Better.” And it wasn’t a lie.

“Sergio is well, he was asking about you. No, don’t worry, I didn’t mention anything about our scene last night.”  _ Scene _ . Martín didn’t know how to feel about that word. “He’s meeting with the Russians next Wednesday. In the interest of anonymity, he doesn’t want any of us to join him.”

They had a nice dinner, enjoying the food Andrés had prepared for them, and got completely immersed in discussing the details of their latest plan. Martín even got to share the revelation he had the previous day and it was met with enthusiastic appreciation, which made him feel so proud of himself. Putting the dishes away, Martín decided it was time to approach the elephant in the room.

“About the, uh.  _ Exploration _ ? I think you called it.” Martín felt really stupid at how he wasn’t even able to ask a seemingly normal question, but let the words hang out there without being able to articulate more.   
  
Andrés eyed him carefully. “After leaving Sergio I went and met with Patricia - you know, the woman with the Shibari knots. We talked for a bit, and she gave me a few books. She was pretty surprised at how our meeting turned out, but she helped me understand a few things.” He paused. “I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten into it without properly discussing with you first. In fact. Wait here.” Andrés got up and left for his room, returning with a couple of books. “You should have a read. We’ll discuss more tomorrow if that’s alright?”

  
That was the best homework Martín had gotten in years - and he used to  _ love  _ homework. The books Andrés had given him were on the topic of BDSM, the dominant-submissive dynamic and the subsequent etiquette. Sure, he knew a couple of things from previous encounters - and porn - but found that the world of this particular kink was entirely more complex, more rewarding than he had initially thought. And he was more than willing to play again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you write with no plan for a part 2; it’s really hard to get yourself out of the corner you wrote yourself into. It took me more than expected to get this thing back on track because these two deserve the absolute best <3 
> 
> This might just get way more chapters than I thought possible. (Well, I initially thought “one”, soooo)


	3. Pollock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You looked so beautiful tied up - your stance, the look on your face - there were times when you looked just like a painting, like Saint Sebastien in ecstasy.” Andrés got close to Martín, really close. “I want to turn you into art again, Martín.”

“I think my safeword should be ‘Tesla’.” Martín said, out of the blue. They’d been having a quiet afternoon, reading in the living room, and Andrés put his own book down to look at him. Martín had been giving it a lot of thought lately - the whole ecosystem that was a sub/dom relationship, as well as what it would mean for their friendship if they were to engage in one.

“Do you want to do that again?” Andrés asked, interest clearly piqued. 

Martín nodded. “I do.”

_ Well fuck, _ Martín thought, his breath coming in harder the second Andrés got up and approached him. 

“Good. I’d like that too. Very, very much. But we have to set some ground rules first.” He lifted Martín’s chin with a finger, motioning him to stand. “You know that I don’t like repeating myself, but I feel like this time it’s different. What are you into?”

Martín felt a shot of excitement at the question. “Everything I said before still stands.”

Andrés nodded, and asked. “And the dirty talk, and the submission?”

“And being tied up.” Martín let the answer hang in the air before asking, “What are  _ you _ into?” 

Andrés smiled and bit at one of his fingers, as if in thought. “I like having control over you. Seeing what power I had over you; it was marvelous. And you looked so beautiful tied up - your stance, the look on your face - there were times when you looked just like a painting, like Saint Sebastien in ecstasy.” Andrés got close to Martín, really close. “I want to turn you into art again, Martín.” Andrés looked into his eyes, reading Martín’s reaction, then leaned in for a kiss.

It caught Martín by surprise, but he fully sank into it, moving his hands to cup Andrés’ head, to drag him in, to get him closer. It was the first time they kissed -  _ really  _ kissed, not the chaste pecks they’d been occasionally given each other. It was better than he thought it would be, and was only made better by the fact that Andrés was so clearly into it. When small moans started to escape his throat, Andrés broke their kiss. He gave a wicked smile and put his finger on Martín’s lips when the other man tried to go back for another kiss. “I would really like to make you hurt. Will you let me?” 

Though it shouldn’t have, the question caught Martín by surprise. ‘Hurt’ should have sounded scary, or at least concerning, but to him it was anything but. “What kind of hurt?”

“Well. I was thinking to start with an open palm, then go to a riding crop if necessary.” 

_ He was thinking _ , Martín mused for a second. Andrés had been thinking about it, planning, making scenarios.  _ Wait _ . Martín realised. “If necessary?”

“If you misbehave. Will you let me punish you if you do?” 

“What, uh, what sort of punishment?”

“I really like your pretty face, so no slapping. No punches, i feel like that sort of violence does not belong in the bedroom. You are precious to me, Martín, I wouldn’t want to damage you. What do you say? What would be an absolute ‘no’ from you?” 

“Agreed. I,” he hesitated, shame overtaking him once more. “I am not into spitting. Or anything that would better belong to um, a bathroom.”

To that, Andrés laughed. “Martín, so self-conscious! Yes, that’s more than alright, definitely not my thing either. Hair pulling?” He asked, before being interrupted by Martín.

“What about fucking?”

Andrés made his eyes comically big and seemed ready to make a joking remark, but decided against it and answered seriously. “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting it to feel so… natural? to jerk you off last time. But it felt right, it felt  _ good _ . And I want to make  _ you  _ feel good. But no, I don’t know how I feel about fucking.”

Martín felt the strange tension between them, that he broke with a joking, “Yes, I know you like women very much.” 

“Yes. I like women very much. But I also like you.” After a short pause, he asked. “How did you know? That you were into men.”

“I don’t know. I guess that somehow I’ve always known.” Martín sat back into his armchair. “When all the boys in school were pining for girls, I was pining for them.” He shrugged.

“Have you tried it? Sex with a woman?”

To this, Martín laughed. “Once. More like a girl, really - we were barely eighteen. Or sixteen? One summer night at the beach, we fucked in one of the bathroom stalls in this really, really crowded bar. People heard us, I got high fives when we came out of that stall.” He hid his face in his hands, embarrassed. “I mean, I performed. Mechanically everything worked - though, to be fair, at that age pretty much anything could make me come. But that’s when I understood I was definitely not into women. They’re pretty to look at, sure, but they do nothing for me.”

Andrés smiled, and his smile once more made the atmosphere electric. “Well, you do something for me. But I’m not sure about fucking. You’ll have to give me time.”

Martín was willing to give him all the time in the world, and he said as much. “What else?”

“This time we’ll do it right. I want to take care of you properly, both during and after. You need to tell me to stop if it gets too much. I also remember that you came down pretty hard right afterwards, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” 

Martín got up, throat suddenly bone-dry, and headed for the kitchen. 

“Oh, and Dali.”

“Hm?” Martín asked, stopping to look at Andrés.

“My safeword. Dali.”

“Alright.” 

***

Finally the night had come when they agreed to do another scene together - properly this time, as Andrés had said. They’d agreed on the terms of what they’d be doing, but Martín was secretly craving the spontaneity of their first encounter. 

_ “Get yourself cleaned up and be in my room at seven. Wear your leather pants. Just your leather pants.” _

Martín had debated if “just your leather pants” meant underwear as well or not, but for his own comfort decided on the former. He’d been ready for way longer than he was willing to admit, constantly checking his watch until the time was right. Finally, it was 7 PM, so he took a deep breath and started for Andrés’ room. He found Andrés sitting at his desk, writing something on a piece of paper. Martín walked to the desk, waiting to be acknowledged in any way, but the man seemed completely oblivious of his presence. 

Minutes had passed, Martín standing motionless in front of Andrés, the staccato of the clock punctuating the silence, until the other man nonchalantly put his pen down and finally looked at him. He measured Martín slowly, head to toe and smiled in appreciation. “You look beautiful”.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the best thing Martín had heard. 

Andrés got up and circled his desk, picking up something from a drawer as he moved closer to Martín - it was a small length of red rope. Martín’s breath hitched into his throat.

“I want to make a masterpiece of you, someday. I’ll make you fly, my darling. But now, let’s start with something simple - bring your hands up, palms down, wrists together.”

The last time, Martín didn’t get a chance to see Andrés in action, nor did he get to see the tie, so this time he looked on hungrily, mouth slightly open, as the other man let the rope uncoil and folded it in half. He eagerly put his hands in front of him and watched the rope slide around his wrists - not tight - then wrap around again. 

“Eyes closed, head back. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in, and out. Go slow.”

Frustration settled in Martín’s chest but he obeyed - he wanted to be good, after all - and focused on his own breathing. 

_ In _ . Click. Clack.

_ Out _ . Click. Clack.

“Slower.”

_ In _ . Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

_ Out _ . Click. Clack. Click. Clack. 

He tipped his head to the side, following the rhythm of his breath to a place that was slightly outside himself, a place that only held Andrés and that maddening rope. That rope, it slid securely on his skin, snaking around his wrists, between them, came back again, and wrapped around once more.

“Hmm, beautiful.” Andrés’ voice came, seemingly from afar, pulling him out of his dream-like state. “Open your eyes, tell me if it isn’t just perfect.”

The light in the room hurt his eyes for the first few seconds after finally opening them, but it was worth the short sting to see the look on Andrés’ face - he was so content, so proud. He took a look at his own wrists and smiled.  _ Beautiful indeed _ .

“Kneel.”

Martín did so, breath already starting to grow heavy, growing heavier still as Andrés got impossibly close to him, looking down.

“Spread your legs. Wider. Now hold.” 

Andrés stepped back to his desk, leaning against it, and began to meticulously unbutton his vest. He knew he was being watched and it was obvious that he enjoyed the attention he was getting. He unbuttoned his shirt, cuffs first, then from the neck down, pulling its tails from his pants. Martín was mesmerized by the languid motions and his attention was caught by the few specks of silver strewn in the other man’s chest hairs. He wanted to bury his face in it.

Andrés walked up to him - really, really close - and got a fistful of Martín’s hair, pulling down, forcing their eyes to meet. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard.

“I believe we both have a penchant for seeing you on your knees. You’re such a beautiful sight.”

“Sit back on your heels.” Placing his feet on either side of Martín’s, Andrés looked down, slightly cocking his head. Once more, he got a fistful of Martín’s hair - a previously unknown sensation, now a blissful rush - and pulled him close to his crotch. “Open that pretty mouth of yours. Mmmm, good.”

Without thinking about it, Martín licked his lips. Andrés gave a little laugh. 

“So hungry, love. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re full. Put your tongue out. Now, I believe you used the word ‘worship’?”

It took Martín a moment to remember, but the words quickly caught up with him.  _ I love worshiping a guy’s cock _ . He did, and he was absolutely starving for the chance to demonstrate his reverence.

Andrés released Martín’s hair after another small tug back, and went to undo his fly. “Your eyes, close them.” 

“What.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. And I didn’t say you could speak.”

Martín closed his eyes and he promptly heard a zipper go down, then the rustle of fabric, and then swore he could feel the air move around his mouth. 

“I bet you’d love to see this. I know how you like to watch.” Andrés gave himself a few jerks, his knuckles so close they were almost hitting Martín’s tongue. He expected any minute to feel Andrés’ cock on his tongue, but was left empty. He opened his eyes but shut them instantly when he heard a firm, “Eyes. Closed!” 

The other man retreated a couple of steps and by the sound of it, pulled out a drawer, then walked back. “I can’t stand disobedience. You’ll be wearing this for a while, until you learn how to behave.” Martín felt a sleep mask slip over his eyes. “This was a small transgression, but if you’re not punished now, how will you learn? Get up on your knees. And close your mouth, you look obscene like that.”

Holding that pose turned out to be harder than it seemed, and Martín found it was a struggle to move. He gingerly got up, feeling his thighs and buttocks tingle as blood rushed back. A hand firmly pulled his chin up, and the rush of air around him told Martín that the other man had knelt in front of him, and soon his hands were working to unfasten his leather pants. “You look absolutely stunning in these, love.” Delft hands pulled his pants lower, then, after a short pause, pulled the boxers down too. Martín had been hard for a while and sighed with relief as his cock was freed, hanging heavy with blood in the slight chill of the room. 

Andrés placed his palm on Martín’s chest. “Get onto your hands and knees. I got you.” His palm steadied Martín as he set his bound hands in front of him, helping him find his balance. 

Martín’s thighs were throbbing with exertion, so the change in position was more than welcomed. He settled, feeling exposed and undeniably aroused. Instinctively, he arched his back, earning a half-moan from the other man. “Gorgeous. Let me look at you.”

He heard Andrés get to his feet and take a few steps, admiring him. “Open palm or riding crop?”

Idly, Martín wondered where Andrés had gotten a riding crop from. 

“Speak.”

“Open palm.”

“Good. I’ll give you six swats, and you will thank me after every one.”

Martín wasn’t prepared when the first palm connected with the skin of his buttocks, and he gasped at the sensation. 

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Two.” The swat landed squarely atop the previous one, not giving enough time for the fresh tingles to have subsided. It felt like his throat was slowly closing, air seemingly resistant to fill his lungs. The stillness around him brought him back for a second, and he said a hoarse  _ thank you _ . 

“Three.”

The palm landed on his other buttock, harder, and Martín’s eyes screwed shut with the initial pain of it. Oddly enough, the pain intensified once the hand retreated, but Martín relished in it. 

“Thank you.”

“Four.” Another swat, harder still, landed in the same place. “Don’t tense up, relax. Relax, and breathe.”

Martín tried it, in and out, in and out, but his breath was dragged out from him in a moan once he felt Andrés’ palm caress his buttocks, raising a thousand of painful little pinpricks in its wake. 

“Five.”   
  
The palm connected, hard, in the exact same spot as the previous, and so did the next one that came almost immediately, with a firm “Six”.

Martín moaned, knowing in the back of his head that something was expected of him but unable to formulate what. He was openly panting now, head dropped low, and he could see a glimpse of his cock between his legs from under the mask. He was unbelievably hard, a thin slick strand connecting with the floor. 

“You didn’t say thank you. Whatever will I do with you, Martín?”

Andrés got back up, and by the sound of his steps, went to stand in front of Martín. 

“One of these days you’re going to have to let me paint you like this, Martín.“

Martín shivered in excitement at the thought. He heard Andrés’ breathing get heavier, and realized the other man was jerking himself. He groaned, wanting to see, endlessly frustrated that he couldn’t. 

“Let me paint you, still.” Came Andrés’ low voice, and soon a hand removed his mask. He flinched at the too-bright-light that initially drowned everything, but then remained transfixed at the sight in front of him. Andrés was towering above him, lips flushed, and his hand was moving furiously up and down his cock. His marvellous, thick cock, Martín sighed and wanted to put his mouth around it. “Look at me.” 

Martín did, he looked up and felt like drowning in Andrés’ rapt expression. He saw his brows furrow in concentration then get locked in what looked so much like pain, but by the moans coming from the other man it was anything but.  _ Beautiful _ , Martín thought as he opened his lips, getting his tongue out just enough for it to be covered in drops of white when Andrés came with a groan, thighs clenching and unclenching with each spurt.

Immediately Andrés fell to his knees, looking absolutely wrecked. “I love you. Kiss me.”

Martín licked his lips, feeling the few salty drops mix with his spit as he swallowed. He leaned up and into the kiss, Andrés’ wet hands cupping his head, marking him further and hungrily kissing the breath from his lungs. 

“Trust me.” Andrés said and grabbed Martín’s shoulders, motioning him up on his knees. There was pain, and there wasn’t - not pain, it was the buzz of white noise on his skin, hot, tingling, smarting. A few cold drops of come slid down between Martín’s shoulder blades as he straightened his back and leaned against Andrés’ chest. He felt like a ragdoll, the other man maneuvering him with ease, taking hold of his bound wrists and looping them around his neck, locking them both in an embrace. 

“You’re so beautiful, love. You’ve been so good, so good.” Andrés hand slipped between them, grabbing Martín’s cock, making all his muscles stiffen at the touch. “You take the pain so well.” Martín was getting lost in the myriad of sensations, overwhelmed by Andrés’ voice whispering in his ear, the pain that was now pulsating in his muscles, and that hand finally touching him, helping him catch up with the release he’d been craving for so long. “I loved marking you with my come, you look so obscene, so willing.” Martín felt it, way sooner than he hoped, the tendrils of orgasm grabbing at his cock and he found Andrés’ eyes, looking at him almost in fear. “Mmm. You are my beautiful obedient pet, my dirty little slut.” At that, orgasm hit Marin like a brick. With a moan caught in his throat, he came, spurting haphazardly between their bodies, completely winded, blinded. 

Andrés caught his mouth in a kiss, once more, holding tightly onto his nearly limp body as he saw Martín down from the high of climax. 

“Can you move?” he asked a little while later, when Martín’s breath seemed to be less shallow. “Wait. Hold on.” Hands under Martín’s armpits, Andrés got the both of them up, then stopped. “Oh, rush of blood to the head.” Andrés unlatched the other man’s bound hands from around his neck and pressed onto him. “I wanted to carry you to the bed but my legs are too shaky.”

Martín smiled as if through a dream,  _ he wanted to carry me to his bed _ . 

“I can walk.” 

They took shaky steps to the nearby bed, Martín moving awkwardly with the pain in his joints and the pressure of his pants clinging to the sweat on his thighs. Leaning onto each other, Andrés helped lay Martín down on the bed, crawling right up to him. “That was.” He stopped, and Martín didn’t know the last time Andrés was out of words. He sighed. “Let me untie you.”

With a pull at the loop in the middle, the rope slid off easily. Andrés pushed it off the bed, then started rubbing the other man’s wrists. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Martín hummed and turned onto his side, nestling closer to Andrés’ chest. “Sleep.” 

And so they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're still learning the ropes (haha, see what I did there?) 
> 
> Archive warnings updated with each chapter.


	4. Mondrian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe you should aim for more than six next time. And you said riding crop? Where did you get a riding crop?" 
> 
> "From the riding crop store." Andrés answered dryly. He caressed Martín's back with gentle fingers. "You were quite the sight; my very own Jackson Pollock. Though I do agree, you're in dire need of a shower. I can’t believe I let you under the covers like that.
> 
> [In which Martín discovers some things about himself (and maybe Andrés does too).]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks to boom_slap for her unwavering support to get this chapter out, and for the beta read. This chapter would have been an embarrassing train-wreck if it weren't for you! <3

Martín was starting to really warm up to waking up in Andrés’ bed. It was still night, and Andrés was there, leaning against the headboard and looking at nowhere in particular. Martín really wanted to move, to engage, to say that he was okay, he was content, he was happy - but he also didn’t want to pierce the small bubble of _good_ that he found himself in. He settled for looking at Andrés through barely open eyelids, and realized that the other man actually had a book in his hand. He was also slowly nodding off, periodically lowering the book in his lap and then perking up with a small inhale. Eventually, Andrés seemed to realise that he was fighting an already lost battle so he put the book on the nightstand, turned off his lamp and got under the covers. Martín smiled, settled just a fraction closer to him, and drifted off. 

Morning came and Andrés was still there. Martín felt energized, almost giddy, and stretched himself really wide under the covers. “Good morning!” he said with a big smile, and Andrés gave him a warm smile back. 

“Good morning indeed. How do you feel?”

“Pretty good, actually.”

"Good." Andrés said, relief evident in his voice. “What do you need?”

“Definitely a shower. And something to eat, I'm famished.”

“Hmm. How are your wrists?” Andrés asked, moving closer to inspect Martín's outstretched hands. There was just a hint of rope burn, several loops of red, and the sight of them made Andrés oddly proud. "Do they hurt?”

“A little. But in a good way.”

"What about your ass?" 

Martín smiled cheekily and turned on his stomach, raising his hips a little. This time he had no issues being naked in front of Andrés, and he folded his hands under his head, actually enjoying exposing himself like that. "I was expecting it to still hurt, or at least to smart a little, but to be honest it's fine. Are there marks?" 

Andrés moved closer, inspecting Martín's bottom carefully. "Aww," he said with a hint of disappointment, "They’re almost gone, there’s just the palest shade of pink." 

"Maybe you should aim for more than six next time. And you said riding crop? Where did you get a riding crop?" 

"From the riding crop store." Andrés answered dryly. He caressed Martín's back with gentle fingers. "You were quite the sight; my very own Jackson Pollock. Though I do agree, you're in dire need of a shower. I can’t believe I let you under the covers like that.”

“You sure weren’t concerned about cleanliness when you painted me like that.”

Andrés smirked. 

*

They had breakfast like they did _before_ , and it was easy, natural and without a hint of tension between them. Conversation had of course eventually veered towards planning their future heist, and Andrés announced that he'd have to meet with their forgerer around noon. Martín, too, had plans - to visit an old books store, in the hopes that the guy there managed to get him some plans for the city water mains. 

"Let's dine out tonight." Said Martín. "In a place with a dancefloor."

"I'll make the reservations, I know just the place."

*

Martín twisted his fists in the other man's shirt and pushed him against a nearby bookshelf but was promptly pushed back with a gruff " _not the books_ ”. Martín actually laughed, turning around and eventually pushing the younger man a little further, against the door to the adjacent room and resumed kissing him. 

He had found the bookstore almost by accident during an afternoon walk, at the ground floor of an old building, and almost missed it at first. The three small rooms were crammed with books from the floor to the ceiling, and the bookseller - a twentysomething guy called Xavi - was friendly, chatty and very, _very_ flirty. 

Xavi had found the plans for Martín, just like he said he would. They exchanged some pleasantries, Martín was thankful, he paid and was ready to leave when the younger man started hitting on him hard. Martín tried to deflect and maybe not leave more of an impression than absolutely necessary but decided that what the hell, he’d roll with it - the young man was undeniably attractive, so damn clever and clearly wanted him.

So there they were, deep in a very handsy makeout session when a strident claxon followed by the sound of a scooter rolling on cobblestones made Martín instantly turn his head. The door to the bookstore was wide open, the street perfectly visible outside. 

“Do you want to close the door?” Martín asked, honestly quite peeved.

“No.”

“What if someone walks in?”

“No one ever does.”

“ _I_ did.”

“Yeah, but you’re already here, so.” Xavi shrugged and went back to kissing and groping shamelessly. Getting caught was never Martín’s thing however - in any context - so he broke the kiss and went to close the front door himself, twisting the key in the lock once just to make sure.

“Why don’t you come over here?” Martín coyly motioned for the younger man to approach, leaning his back against the door.

“Why don’t _you_ “come over there”? I’ll help.” He said, taking off his shirt as he approached. 

And Martín did, he came all over the door after being fucked not at all quietly against it. 

* 

Martín was enjoying the post-coital haze, walking home with the rolls and stacks of paper under his arm. He initially felt cheeky, but before long his mood shifted. Suddenly he felt cheap, he felt like he used the younger man to get what he wanted - or that he let himself be used in lieu of payment for ordering ‘off-catalogue’, as it were. One word - _slut_ \- kept circling his head, coming to the forefront over and over. It had been just the right thing on Andrés’ lips, and yet now he hated himself for enjoying it so much. Because, he found, he was a slut. 

_My dirty little slut_. 

Andrés was without a doubt a womanizer, seemingly falling in love or lust every other week. Some of his flings turned more serious - he’d been married a couple of times, after all - while others were just fleeting blips, but Martín could see how he gave himself so completely to all of them. 

Meanwhile Martín… His philosophy for love and sex was certainly different. He saw sex as utilitarian. It was pleasurable, of course, and he threw himself in it enthusiastically, but it was never more than _just_ sex, the release of tension, clearing his head so he could break the occasional fog.

And love? He tried. A couple of his relationships had gone past the two month mark, but always ended abruptly, and always because of him. Emotionally unavailable, they’d call him. Guarded, closed off, unable to _give_. He always thought he was giving plenty, until one past lover explained that he meant to give himself emotionally. And that, he couldn’t. If it was because he gave everything to Andrés - fruitlessly - he didn’t know. But he found he had nothing to give but his body.

Like a slut.

Rationally, Martín understood that he was dropping _hard_ , and that it was all due to some off-kilter chemistry in his brain. But that was the thing; reason has absolutely no weight in these moments. He knew that one of the best ways would be to reach out to Andrés, to talk this through, but what would that achieve? He was right, and Andrés could do nothing but agree.

When he came back to the apartment Andrés was gone.

No matter how hard he tried, he found that he couldn’t focus on anything. Anything but feeling... What? Ashamed? Guilty? It was hard to pinpoint and harder still to ignore. The only way he found that he could clear his head was to get back into _those_ leather pants, to go to Andrés’ room and to sit on his heels by his desk. 

_That fucking clock_ , Martín thought at first because it was still the only thing that seemed to move in the house, in his whole world. Soon he began to be thankful for its staccato, and once more synced his breath to the rhythm, eventually zoning out. 

He got pulled out of the haze once the door opened and Andrés walked in. If he was surprised to find Martín there, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he walked right past him, seemingly oblivious of his presence, placed a stack of books on the desk, took off his jacket and headed for the bathroom. Martín hadn’t said a word, choosing to keep his eyes down, and went back to that far-away place once more once he heard the shower start.

“You’re a good little pet, aren’t you?” 

The words brought him back to reality. He blinked a couple of times, but kept his eyes down. _Like a good little pet._

“What do you need?”

 _Pain_ , Martín thought. “I want more.” Then, after a second, he added, “ _Sir_.” That seemed to be the right thing to say because Andrés was right beside him in a manner of seconds.

“More of what?”

“Pain.” He said, eventually. “I want you to hurt me, I want you to make me feel it.” _I want you to punish me._

“Get up.”

It was hard to get his own legs to cooperate but Andrés didn’t move the slightest bit to steady him. He watched on, almost predatorily, with a dangerous look on his face. Martín sensed that something was different this time, like the air was heavier and saturated with electricity. 

“Stand up straight.”

And Martín tried, he really tried, but it was difficult to straighten his strained knees. 

Andrés lunged for him, startling Martín, grabbing him by the neck and pushing him roughly against the wall. His fingers were digging into Martín’s jaw, painfully and without mercy, and his look was spine-chilling. Martín was finally able to identify that current that shot through him when the other man lunged at him - it was _fear_ . He tried to push it down, _this is what I want, this will feel good_ , and very nearly believed it.

“You are really begging for punishment today, aren’t you?” 

He was. It was exactly what he was there for, what he needed. What he deserved.

“Yes, sir.”

“Beg me to spank you.”

“Please. Please, _sir_ . I want you to spank me.” _To punish me_.

“Hmm.” Andrés growled and let go of Martín’s throat, leaving him drawing deep, thirsty breaths. “Get naked and bend over the desk.”

His moves almost mechanical, Martín undid his pants, slid them off, then looked around not knowing what to do with them. He decided to leave them in a heap on the floor, stepped out of them and went to bend over the desk, as instructed.

“No.” The word cut the air and Martín flinched. “Don’t be sloppy. Fold them and set them on the chair, neatly.” Martín did.

“You’ll meet the riding crop today.” Andrés said, walking to one of his dressers and returning with a red and black riding crop. He caressed Martín’s bare bottom with a feather-light palm. “The open palm doesn’t seem to color you for long. This should make a more lasting picture. I’ll give you ten swats - think you can handle ten?”

Martín nodded. 

“Good. Then you’ll take ten, and you’ll count them out loud.” Andrés leaned in, getting closer to Martín’s ear. “Tell me if you need to stop. I think your safeword was ‘Tesla’? Use it in case anything feels like it’s too much.”

Once more, Martín nodded, even though he knew he wouldn’t need to use it. He just needed the pain, the punishment, and he welcomed it. He couldn’t say exactly how, but he knew it would make him feel better.

When Andrés started peppering little taps along his buttocks, almost too soft, Martín shifted and threw back, “Is that all you have?”

The leather retracted immediately, and Andrés took a step back. His breath was deep, almost audible. “I don’t tolerate talk-back.”

The first swat came across both of his lower buttocks, making Martín flinch and grunt. “One.” he eventually said, once he felt all the nuances of the pain. The second fell right under the first one, raising fire under Martín’s skin. “Two.” The following three came in quick succession, Martín trying to focus on counting and hissing from the pain.

A heavy hand pushed him back flush with the desk. “Don’t move.”

 _Thwack_! And Martín instinctively pulled his hands from under him, trying to cover himself, to block the pain. “Um, six.” The pain was different from the open handed slaps, it was urgent and both radiated outwards and stung in a very exact place all once, and Martín found it difficult to focus from under its presence. 

“Don’t. Move!” came a threatening growl, and Martín got his hands away. Immediately, three swats landed in quick succession, connecting hard, raising the skin in their wake. Martín stopped counting at seven, getting overwhelmed by the pain, a tremor overtaking his entire body. He pushed himself up and off the desk, and his knees gave out.

“You said you could take ten.” Andrés spat out, and Martín let himself fall on his side and curl his knees to his chest. He watched Andrés, his whole world spinning, and saw the crop lifted high, ready to strike. 

“Fuck.” Martín saw the riding crop fall to the floor but it was soon obstructed by Andrés, urgently kneeling by his side. “Are you okay? Martín. Hey!”

Martín couldn’t muster the motivation to move. It wasn’t the pain - though it was present and it throbbed along with his heartbeat. He felt like his head was spinning, he felt high, with a head full of cotton. 

“Martín, say something. Are you okay?”

“No.”

Andrés hesitantly touched his shoulder, and was taken aback when Martín flinched at his touch. “Shit. Did I hurt you?”

 _Of course you did. And I wanted it. I deserve it_. Martín began to shake in earnest, finding his throat closing. He was crying.

“Oh god Martín! What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong?”

 _So, so many things._ “I don’t know. This doesn’t feel right. I thought I needed this, I thought- I thought that I needed the punishment, that it would make me better, but…”

Andrés crouched to look at him, worry mixing with confusion. “Punishment? This isn’t what it’s all about. And punishment for what?

Weakly, through sobs, Martín finally said it. “I let him fuck me. I let him fuck me, Andrés!”

The other man looked on, desperately trying to understand. “What?”

“I let him fuck me, like I always do. Like the slut that I am.”

Then a fresh realisation hit Martín, and he looked at Andrés, completely crushed. “I let him fuck me. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about what this meant, for us I-”

“What? Who did you fuck? What?” Andrés grabbed his face in his hands, as if reading his expressions gave him more of an idea about what Martín was saying.

“Today. At the bookstore. The guy with the plans, we… We fucked.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“What? No.”

“Then what?”

Martín rolled onto his back, flinching and hissing at the pain that made itself obvious once more. Why _did_ he react like that? 

“I don’t know. It hit a raw nerve, I guess. When you called me a slut last night, it just-"  
  
Andrés’ whole demeanor changed. He looked broken. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, it was just dirty talk. I don’t think you’re a slut.” He leaned in and pulled Martín in his arms, visibly getting angrier when the other man winced. “Look at me. I’m sorry I hurt you. Both last night and now. We shouldn't have entered a scene so soon, and especially not before talking about it. I should have known something was off, I should have picked up on the strange vibe from the start.” 

“I’m sorry.” Martín said, softly, and started to sit up. 

“It’s not your fault, don’t apologize. Though I do wish you’d use your safeword.”

Martín sighed, thinking back to how he decided to just _take it_. Since it had never been about pleasure, just about the pain, he had no intentions of stopping it. “I’m sorry.” He said finally.

“Come on, let’s get you to the bed.”

“You know, we should really start doing this in a bed.”

Andrés snorted. “You do have a point. Come on.”

Martín sat gingerly on the bed, rolled on his side, eyes fixed on a point on the wall. He saw Andrés pick the riding crop and he closed his eyes, unwilling to deal with the image anymore. _Not a slut, okay_. He’d always been upfront about what he wanted, never made pretenses - either for himself or his partners. Why would it be a problem now?

The bed shifted with Andrés’ weight.

“I have some cream for the welts, roll on your stomach."

Andrés applied the cold liquid with light, hesitant touches, then sat beside Martín, facing him. Eventually, he asked softly, "What happened?"

"I guess I was in a bad headspace, that's all."

"No, with the whole ‘slut’ thing. Is that something that bothers you?”

 _I mean, obviously._ “I don’t know. It never has. And you’re right, I don’t see myself like that. I know what I want and I take it. I’m smart about it. I compartmentalize. Shit. This is so fucked up. This is not me, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“What do you need?”

“Hold me? I need sleep. I’ll be myself again tomorrow.”

“I’m not letting you sleep without getting some proper hydration. How long have you been waiting for me when I arrived? Have you eaten anything since breakfast?”

Martín thought for a second. “You know what, I don’t think I have.”

“I’ll order us some food. Wait here.”

They ate the pizza on the bed - Andrés made no comment about cleanliness this time - and when they were done, he took the empty boxes to the kitchen. They’d been mostly quiet up until that point, but when Andrés returned from the kitchen it was obvious that he had a lot on his mind. He sat beside Martín on the bed, averting his eyes.

“Look Martín. I am not a good person. I’m sure you know this about me by now. I’m afraid- Shit. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you. _Really_ hurt you. Earlier, when you stopped; it made me angry. So angry that I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop hitting you, I almost didn’t want to stop.”

“But you did.” When Andrés still avoided his gaze, Martín took his face in his hands and forced their eyes to meet. “Listen, I know you. I know who you really are. You may not be a ‘good person’ - whatever that is. But you’ve always been good to me. It’s always been different with us.”

“Earlier though, I’m sure I saw fear in your eyes. And I’m not sure I hated it. I don’t want -”

“Earlier I wasn’t myself. You weren’t yourself either.”

“But I _was_ ! Don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you? I said I wanted to control you and my god Martín, it feels intoxicating to see the power I have over you. I said I wanted to hurt you, and it felt _so good_ when I did. Too good. What if one day I won’t be able to stop, and I’ll hurt you, I’ll damage you.”

“Andrés. Love. Look at me. I love you. I trust you. Do you trust me?” Andrés nodded. “Then have faith in my trust in you. We aren’t like everybody else.”

“We aren’t like everybody else.” Andrés repeated, and knew in his bones that it was true.

*

Sleep did indeed help, Martín woke feeling fresh, and after a bit of probing, found that the fog of the previous evening had gone. Andrés was still sleeping by his side so he quietly slid out of bed and headed for his room, intent on brushing his teeth. Except his toothbrush was nowhere to be found. Confused, he went back to Andrés’ room, to his bathroom, and sure enough his toothbrush and shaving gear were there, sat neatly on the countertop. 

He was well into shaving when the bathroom door opened and Andrés walked in. Completely naked. Martín tried not to, but still found himself taking not-so-subtle peeks at his cock. 

“Good morning, love.” 

Martín leaned in for a quick kiss, smudging some shaving cream on Andrés’ face. “I’ll jump in the shower once I’m done, do you want to join me? You know, so I won’t hurt myself.”

Andrés gave him a sarcastic eyebrow raise, but nodded. “Sure, we wouldn’t want that.”

Showering together was an absolute mess. The cubicle was far too small to accommodate that many limbs without someone getting hurt, plus they could not agree on the temperature - though Andrés decided that since it was his bathroom, it was his decision. Martín reluctantly accepted the lukewarm water, still complaining about it every once in a while. Eventually they ended up soaping each other, and though it had started more in jest than anything, they ended up making out and forgetting about cleaning themselves.

Andrés finally pushed Martín away. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it in bed for once.”

It felt strange to actually be this intimate, even after all they’ve done. This was different, more natural somehow. It was slow and careful, and Martín took his time to caress and pepper kisses on every inch of Andrés’ body. It was something he’d dreamed about more than a few times, and even though it wasn’t quite as passionate and full of fervor as in his dreams, it was somehow better. 

“Can I taste you again? I want to taste you again,” Martín said breathlessly, unable to find words but utterly uninterested to try. He wasn’t unaware that they’ve never done anything quite like this, and watched Andrés, trying to read any hint of hesitation in the other man. 

“Please.” Andrés moaned, and it was such a pitiful, strangled sound. Martín instantly heeded his plea - how much he’d waited for this encouragement - and slid lower under the twisted covers. He felt a thrill dart down his spine, like it was the first time he’s done this. Every new partner was a new book to discover, but with Andrés this discovery seemed to carry that much more weight. He pushed the covers clear off and sat on his heels, straddling the other man, admiring the view. And what a view; a flushed and panting Andrés, skin glistening with droplets of sweat, watching him with hungry eyes. Completely and utterly at his mercy - and that’s precisely why he knew he had so much power on his knees. Martín wanted to say so much - or maybe it was just “ _I love you_ ” but a thousand times, he wasn’t sure - but instead he gave Andrés a smile and leaned to take his cock between his lips. 

An instant twitch, a choked moan and Andrés arched his back off the bed. _Deliciously sensitive_ , Martín thought wildly and proceeded to take the other man in, deeper, until he found he could take no more and closed his fist around the remaining flesh. He enjoyed a loud partner and was not disappointed - his lover gasping and moaning with every new sensation, throwing an ‘oh fuck!’ when Martín worked his hand in sync with his mouth, quickly bobbing up and down. Martín tried to take him as deep as he could, trying to relax his throat and work his mouth, and his efforts were rewarded by fists knotting in his hair, not pushing, just hanging on for dear life. When he did manage to get his lips on the stubble and sweat of Andrés’ skin, the other man groaned and gave the smallest of twitches with his hips, as if trying not to bury himself deeper. Martín worked his tongue enough to swallow around the flesh in his mouth, and pulled himself off, gasping for air. 

Another whine, and a “ _please, I’m so close, don’t stop, please don’t stop_ ” so he went back, swallowing as much as he could, and when he had gotten it all in once more, deliciously full and twitching, Andrés raised his hips a little and whispered, “Can I?” Martín managed a small nod, braced himself against the bed and the fists in his hair closed again as the other man started to fuck his mouth, careful at first but soon increasing in rhythm. His jaw ached, his eyes were watering but he wouldn’t stop for anything in the world, retreating just a bit so he could breathe and so Andrés could fuck deeper in his mouth. It took the both of them unaware when Andrés moaned and stopped his hips only to give a couple more erratic, broken thrusts, and bitter slickness flooded Martín’s mouth. He tried sucking, hungrily, the erratic thrusts filling him with more warmth. Andrés let his hips fall to the bed and his cock slipped out of Martín’s mouth, still giving the odd twitch. 

“Fuck,” Andrés said, fisting his hands in Martín’s hair, dragging him up and into a kiss. “That was… wow.” He settled against the drenched sheets, basking in the afterglow, when he seemingly noticed the hardness of Martín’s cock against his thigh. “Let me.” He said, and sat up, but Martín pushed him back against the bed. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I understand this is all… new to you. I’m really close too, and I really want to paint you back.”  
  
“I want to. Let me.”

His own cock twitching in anticipation, Martín lay on his back, the weight of Andrés instantly rolling on top of him. He gave a few kisses on his way down, on Martín’s chest, his belly, then lower, on the base of his cock. Andrés took him in his hand, squeezing just right, and it was Martín’s turn to moan, “Fuck, if you want to do it, do it, or I’ll come just from this.” _Just from the sight_. 

Andrés finally gathered the courage to dip in and wrap his mouth around the cock in his hand, pulling the skin down and retreating to suck at the exposed head. Martín felt dizzy, trying to stave off the inevitable, to prolong it, thinking that he couldn’t come from just that, that he wasn’t a teenager anymore, getting his dick sucked for the first time. Andrés’ awkward, hesitant mouth was warm, with maybe a hint of teeth - not that he was complaining, not now - but soon became more confident as he moved up and down, taking his time to enjoy the sensation. 

“Fuck, please, faster.” Andrés didn’t manage to keep up the faster pace for long, because Martín gave a strangled moan, “‘m cumming.” and tried to push Andrés off, unsure whether his lover was ready to get a mouthful of his come. Andrés pushed back, not letting up, sucking until Martín was dry and stopped pulsing. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry for not giving you more warning-” He cocked his head when he saw Andrés’ satisfied grin. “Do you want a tissue to spit?”

Andrés just shook his head, opening his mouth and presenting his tongue, the most obscene indication that he had swallowed.

“Wow, really?”

Andrés nodded. “You don’t taste so bad. Different, but not bad.” He moved back up, next to Martín and settled on his side, resting his head on his elbow and starting into the blue eyes in front of him. “This was spectacular. I can’t understand why we haven’t done this until now.”

“I was always here, love. I’ve always been right here.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the strong language in this chapter, but it's not like I didn't learn a host of Spanish swearwords by watching this show.


	5. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he stood there, looking at the lights of the city, the world going about its business like something huge hadn’t just happened, Martín felt more and more like his chest was tightening. He became acutely aware of something that he’d known for so, so long: he was in love. So completely in love that he felt like a useless sack of bones, but it was still the most liberating feeling he’d ever experienced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this without my usual thousand of re-reads & re-writes, so this might lack in finesse. But this chapter wrote itself and demanded to be out, and who am I to stop it?

“So this is why you had me dress to the nines.”

“Yes.”

“The Executive Class car.”

“Yes.”

“And you booked the entire thing?” 

Andrés nodded like it was nothing then placed their luggage on the overhead space. 

“Shouldn’t there be, like, a bellboy or something to do that for us? This looks like a place that would come with a personal valet.”

“It does, in a way, but I specifically asked for us to be left undisturbed.”

“Right.” Martín took in the car, eight lavish seats in a warm champagne color, the whole thing looking more luxurious than a private jet. “Do you even understand the value of money?” 

“Of course I understand the value of money. I also understand the value of comfort, and I value my comfort very highly. _Our_ comfort.” He leaned in for a short kiss, then went to the back of the car, opening a glass door. 

Martín felt a little uneasy whenever Andrés made excessive purchases and usually tried to reign him in a bit. He still remembered his youth in Buenos Aires, the days when money wasn’t plentiful, when he waited tables while attending the civil engineering classes in UBA, helping to ease the financial burden on his family. His life had changed drastically since he had met Andrés but he still couldn’t forget that life was hard - or at least, it was for most people. 

The only thing Martín could say, after following Andrés through the glass door was, “Excuse me, but what the fuck.”

“You were right when you said that you weren’t a poet, weren’t you?” Andrés teased while taking some papers from his briefcase and setting them on the conference table. 

“This train has a conference room? Who is itching so badly to hold conferences on trains? Isn’t this why trains exist, to take you to places where conferences are held?”

Andrés just shrugged - it’s not like he was an actual business man, he was just really, really good at pretending that he was one.

“So what did you tell them to leave us alone? We’re high-power attorneys trying to work on a highly sensitive case?”

“No. High ranking officials. I didn’t even have to say “Ministry of Foreign Affairs”, the lady came up with that on her own.”

Martín shook his head, taking a seat at the table. “Tell me again why we couldn’t just drive to Rome?”

“See? This is precisely why I don’t tell you everything. This gives us both the privacy and the comfort to discuss some rather important affairs. Couldn’t have done that while one of us was driving. One day you’ll have to understand that some things are more important than money.”

 _Easy to say for someone who’s wealthy,_ thought Martín but instead let it drop. He just wanted this discussion to end, so instead he took one of the pieces of paper on the table. Andrés swatted his hand away.

“Patience. We’ll get to that.” He sat across Martín, quiet for a few long minutes before continuing. “You were worried, with the bookshop guy, about it meant for us.”

Martín’s eyebrows shot up as he was trying to realize how they got to that particular subject, in that particular setting. “What?”

“You said you hadn’t thought about what it meant for us if you fucked other people.”

“Yes?” Martín said, eventually, feeling like he was getting whiplash from the sudden change in subjects.

“It’s true, we never discussed whether we’re exclusive. Is that something you want?”

Martín thought for a bit. Exclusivity was not new to him, but he did enjoy his freedom. “I don’t know? Is that something _you_ want?”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought. I really enjoy our scenes, and it turns out I very much enjoy being intimate with you, too. But as you know,” he smiled and shrugged, “I like women.”

“Very much.” Martín finished amusedly. He understood that theirs were a rather complex set of circumstances. “It wouldn’t feel fair for you to not be able to still sleep with women.” Not that he particularly enjoyed the thought.

“Thank you.” Andrés said courteously. “And I wouldn’t think it was fair to you to stop you sleeping with other men, if you wanted to. Do you want that?”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. I mean, just the other day, I did. You know, the bookseller, I did him.” He grinned. Now, with a clear head, he didn’t feel as guilty about his sexual proclivities. 

“But we have to be safe about it,” Andrés said, and Martín nodded. “I would also like for us both to get tested for STIs; when did you last get tested?” 

Martín shrugged. It had been a while indeed.

“Let’s get onto that as soon as we get back. Also. We need to be honest if and when we sleep with other people. I don’t want you to ask permission, or to feel guilty about it. You don’t need to tell me ahead of time, but I would still like to know if it happens.”

“Likewise,” said Martín. “But please spare me the details.”

Andrés laughed. “So I guess this takes a threesome out of the question.”

“Only if it’s with a woman.”

“Fine.” A mock roll of the eyes. “What I want - _need_ \- is an open line of communication. Are you okay with that?” 

Martín nodded, his thoughts slipping into the murky waters of feelings, wanting to ask what happened if Andrés fell in love with one of the women but didn’t dare probe that particular bear. Andrés was, as always, a step ahead of him.

“We’ll discuss even if one of us develops feelings for someone else.” 

_I won’t,_ Martín thought, but instead just nodded.

“Good,” Andrés concluded, reaching for the papers in front of him, handing Martín a few stapled sheets. “Now let’s do something we should have done properly when we last broached the subject. The checklist.”

“Oh I’ve read about this!” Martín flipped through the pages, marveling briefly at the number of them. “I never thought people actually do it, though. Like, with pen and paper.”

“I think we should really clear some things, especially since we just seemed to find ourselves flung in this, going more on instinct than agreement. I want to do it right. As I’ve said before, I don’t want to hurt you. I need to know your limits. I also need you to acknowledge them and use your safeword. And you need to be honest about it, about entering a scene under the wrong pretenses, like our last time.”

Martín still felt… off about that particular scene. Everything about it was wrong, and he’d gladly do anything to never find himself in a similar position. 

“Shall we get on then? I’ll read, we both fill in. Here, have this pen.”

They agreed on a number of things, stopping every once in a while to discuss more in depth. Much to Martín’s surprise, Andrés checked “yes” for the ‘anal sex - give’ so he felt obligated to tease with a shameless, “I’m pretty sure there are no cameras in this conference room, if you want to try.” When Andrés scoffed and tried to move on, he pressed again. “Or we could go to the bathroom, I’m sure they’re spotless in this place!” Andrés just moved on, pointedly ignoring being propositioned. 

Andrés did stop at ‘caning’ and tried to collect his thoughts. “In our latest scene. I- I used the riding crop as a cane. I know it’s not enough to just apologize, but. Shit.” He got up and started pacing as much as the cramped quarters allowed. “I don’t know what I was thinking, that whole thing was a mess from the start. That's why I’m hoping that the checklist - along with us communicating - will keep us both safe. I’d lie if i didn’t say that I was still a bit apprehensive, if not downright afraid of entering another scene and getting in that headspace again. The one where I feed off your fear and pain.” 

Martín got up, circling the narrow table to pull him into an embrace. “I think I saw ‘roleplay’ on there as well. Would that work? That way we could, I don’t know, make a scenario we both agree on and play within that?” 

“That could work. But you still need to stop me if things get too intense.”

“I will. I’ll do better.”

“So will I.”

  
  


The meeting in Rome was a fruitful one, their contact - a pretty young woman who was more than competent with computers - agreeing with their terms without much fuss. Martín saw how she eyed Andrés, and even though he couldn’t blame her, he felt oddly possessive. He made a show to touch Andrés more than casually, until he eventually saw the understanding in her eyes that Andrés was _his_. 

Martín refused Andrés’ offer to visit the town with a, “ _I’ve seen Rome before, it’s beautiful, etcetera._ ” He was eager to get to the hotel and maybe explore that surprising ‘yes’ on Andrés’ list. Of course that Andrés saw right through him, trying to postpone getting to their hotel, insisting that they walk there. Even though Martín complained that they had luggage - two overnight bags, so nothing, really - they walked, Andrés recounting memories he had of random places, pointing out the beautiful architecture, basically torturing him with beautiful words.

When they finally got to their hotel, Martín was positively beaming. He was more than a little excited when Andrés got the access card to their suite - two rooms, sure, but it didn’t go past him that one of them had a king size bed. He declined the invitation to dine out, insisting that they have dinner in their room. They compromised on dining in the hotel restaurant, though Andrés was quite vocal about his displeasure at their agreement. 

Martín wolfed down his pasta, positively irritated with how slow Andrés was eating. And then he ordered dessert, too. After a tortuously long dinner, they returned to their suite, Martín briefly going to his room to get his toiletries before heading for the shower. As he’d become accustomed, Andrés joined him in the shower, and once more they found themselves kissing and groping, having to cut the shower short and going back to Andrés’ room, not yet completely dry. 

There, on Andrés’ bed, Martín saw the red rope, a deep contrast with the white of the sheets.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to do another scene so soon?”

“Well, not a scene, but I was hoping you’d let me tie you up again? I really enjoyed it. And I want to do that full-body harness, the one I was working on when you so rudely interrupted me.”

Martín smiled. That harness was the sole reason that they finally pushed the boundaries of their relationship and helped them discover so much about themselves and each other. He nodded.

“Alright. Wait here.” Andrés went and took the rope, folding it in half, returning to slowly drape it around Martín’s neck. 

“Can I look this time?” 

And Andrés kissed him, caressing his cheek. “You can do anything you want, love.”

The first knot fell right under his collarbones, and when Andrés made the first know Martín felt all kinds of _wrong_ , because once more it felt too much like a noose. But then came the second knot, just a little lower, and then the third above his navel, and then the fourth, right at the base of his half-mast cock. Andrés knelt, wrapping the two ends of rope around his dick, then passing it between his butt cheeks, then behind him, and up. He got to his feet once more, eyes soft but focused, embracing Martín, his chin in the crook of his neck, looking at his back, pulling the rope under the loop at Martín’s nape. The rope slid slowly, raising goosebumps along his skin, and Martín reveled in the sensation. 

Every once in a while he had to steady himself against Andrés’ shoulders, whenever the other man pulled a bit to tighten the rope, but his touches were never contested. The rope kept slithering between his back and his front, opening the space between the knots into a beautiful pattern. Finally, after wrapping around the two ends of the rope, Andrés stood up and looked at Martín; all content, proud even.

“You look exquisite, love.”

And that’s all it took, Martín grabbing his face, kissing him hungrily, walking the both of them back until they fell on the bed. 

Martín just _needed_ \- he didn’t know what, but he felt that if he wouldn’t get it, he’d die. He rearranged the both of them to sit the right way on the bed, straddling Andrés, looking at him like his chest was ready to burst with want, with love. What followed was a small wrestling match, both fighting for dominance, for pinning the other down and kissing them breathless, when Andrés captured Martín under his weight and whispered in his ear, “will you let me fuck you?”

Of all the things that Martín wanted to say, like, _yes, please, thank you,_ or _fucking finally_ , he somehow settled on “duh”, making the both of them laugh.

“Wait here”, Martín said. “I’ll get the condoms and lube from my bag.”

Andrés pinned him down once more. “I have everything here.” And Martín was impressed at the level of planning that Andrés had done. He'd known that they’d do this, he’d planned on it even. And of course, Andrés being himself, his plans were flawless.

“What do you need?” 

That question again, and Martín could not get tired of hearing it, feeling like every utterance was a new tendril that tied them closer together. 

“Lube, fingers, your cock.” he said concisely, and Andrés complied. 

The knot just above Martín’s cock was pushing not at all unpleasantly, caught under his erection, and Andrés spread out the lengths of rope underneath it, making them dig into his buttocks.

Martín was fighting for breath, watching Andrés lube his fingers, still finding it wild that it was finally happening. The other man leaned in for a long kiss, then circled a finger around Martín’s hole, finally pressing in. “Good?” he asked, equally breathless. Martín nodded. “More.” And that’s what he received, a second finger, and then a third before he finally managed a “I want you, please.” And Andrés sat on his heels, looking desperately before finding the condom that had gotten lost between the sheets, rolling it on then laying once more to sit atop Martín. “How do you want me?”

“Inside, hard.” 

They both gasped when Andrés’ cock pushed past the ring of muscle, and remained locked there, eyes closed, in deep focus. “You’re so warm, my god.” He pushed himself deep, deeper still, until he bottomed out and opened his eyes to say something, but nothing came out but moans. 

He gave a couple of shallow thrusts then sat up on his heels, gathering Martín’s feet against his shoulders. “You’re such a work of art, love.” He started to thrust in earnest, long deep thrusts that made Martín moan and grab the edge of the mattress above his head. It didn’t take long before Martín grabbed his own cock, jerking quickly, arching his back, feeling the rope and the knots press deliciously against his collarbones and his rib cage, and his eyes flew open with a silent gasp as he came all over himself. He was still pulsating when he felt Andrés stiffen and thrust a couple more times, and looked greedily to drink in the absolute rapture in his eyes. He could feel the last twitches of the cock inside him when Andrés leaned in, folding his legs almost painfully, and kissing him hungrily. 

Andrés removed himself slowly, taking off the condom and tying a knot before throwing blindly at the foot of the bed. He slumped by Martín who immediately bundled himself on the crook of his elbow. Silence.

Then, after a while, Martín said hoarsely, “I feel like we should break open some champagne or something.”

Andrés laughed. “I’ll go get some ice, just give me a second.”

“Or I could go, just like this.” he pointed at the harness, now painted in places with white, shiny droplets. "Imagine, _the scandal._ " 

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Andrés got up, somewhat shakily, then went to get dressed. Martín didn’t miss the fact that Andrés put on pants with no underwear, almost certainly ruining them. It was strange to see the man that was always so elegant, so composed, willing to go out into the world looking less than perfect.

As soon as Andrés left, Martín got up and pulled the tiny bottle of champagne out of the minibar, pressing the cold glass to his chest, making himself shiver. As he stood there, looking at the lights of the city, the world going about its business like something huge hadn’t just happened, Martín felt more and more like his chest was tightening. He became acutely aware of something that he’d known for so, _so_ long: he was in love. So completely in love that he felt like a useless sack of bones, but it was still the most liberating feeling he’d ever experienced.

When Andrés came back not long after, Martín stopped him and pulled him into his arms, and into a deep, desperate kiss. He felt like he couldn’t hold it in any longer, consequences be damned. 

“Look, Andrés. I love you, I really love you, and I don’t want to ruin it all by pouring this on you,” _but brace yourself because this is all coming out_ , “but I can’t keep it bottled up anymore. It’s threatening to burst out of my chest if I do, it will destroy me, consume me until there’s nothing left. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before, and just when I think that I couldn't love you any more, you somehow wring more out of me still, and I can’t believe that I can hold all of it, that I can feel this much, this intensely. See? Right here.” He takes Andrés’ hand and places it right at the center of his chest, on the outside of the burning supernova that brews inside of him. “It’s all right here. You are right here. You’ve always been right here, making yourself more at home, claiming more and more of me. And it’s everything to me. You are everything to me. Please. I don’t even know what I’m asking. Please accept it? Please don’t be afraid.” _Please, don’t leave me._ “Please. Let me love you.”

Andrés’ palm was trembling on his chest so Martín put his own on top of it, to steady it. It should have felt better to get it out, but it was still storming, growing ever bigger, that warmth, that love. 

“Please say something.” His breath was hitching and he felt dizzy, finally feeling the cold air on the tears that fell down his cheeks, and lower, on his collarbones, ending up sucked by the rope. “Please.” And with that Andrés removed his hand from his chest and Martín wanted to cry, to scream, to burn down the world itself. 

There was something in Andrés’ eyes, something he’d never seen before. When he finally spoke, it was in a soft, defeated voice. 

“How can you love me when I do nothing but hurt you? How can you love me - _me!_ \- when I don’t deserve it. I am twisted and ugly, I am selfish and-” He sighs and looks around as if the words were painted on the walls around them. “I’ve hurt you all this time. I’ve hurt you over and over, with every lover and every wife. I’ve seen the heartbreak in you every single time, and yet I didn’t stop. I fed on your pain, and on your tears - I’ve heard you cry, you know? The walls are thin and your walls are even thinner; I’ve always seen, I've always known. And I never stopped doing it. How can you love me.” He just let the last sentence hang in the air, shaking his head. 

Then he just left the room, left the apartment, left Martín standing there. Broken, completely destroyed. Finally hollow.

That was, by far, the worst thing that Andrés had done to him. 


	6. The Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk and then they don't; more learning (and coffee) are being had.

Martín stood there for the longest time, tears streaming down his face, trying to make sense of something, anything. Eventually, he found the strength to move, legs like lead taking him to his room. With every step, the harness was digging into bones and skin, and it suddenly stopped being this beautiful work of art and started feeling more and more like a cage. He started to untie it, hands shaking angrily pulling at the length of rope, twisting his arms to get it off his back. Soon, he’d gotten tangled in it and just wished he’d find a pair of scissors, a knife, anything to get it off him. He eventually managed to wrangle it off, some loops still in place, pulling muscles in his arms and back, and he threw it on the ground, wanting to burn it along with everything it meant. He pushed it out of his room, slamming the door just to get it out of his sight. 

He sunk on his bed, cursing when his skin pulled at the dried cum drops on his abdomen _._ He got back up, intent on going to the bathroom to clean himself, but when he opened the door he saw it again - the rope, red loops and twists, a reminder of all that was wrong and painful. He picked it up, threw it towards Andrés’ room, then slammed the door once more.

 _Right_ , he thought, working to undo the zipper to his bag, looking for night clothes. Clenching, unclenching his fists - but still his hands would not stop shaking. _Fuck this, fuck all of this_ \- he picked the bag and threw it against the wall, clothes flying everywhere. Stepping across them, he picked a pair of pajama bottoms, pulled them on and sank into bed, fighting his way under the tightly wrapped covers. 

He’d been able to keep under wraps the true magnitude of his feelings for so, _so_ long, and then let them all spill out after one fuck. _Way to go, Martín, way to go_ . _At least I chased him away with too many feelings instead of too few,_ he marveled. Crazy how the once emotionally shut off guy reached crazy stalker levels of intensity in just a manner of days.

Martín tried to sleep, but of course that blessing escaped him - instead he sat in the dark, beating himself up for not being able to keep his mouth shut, like he’d been doing for years. The apartment door opened, then shut, and then footsteps approached his door and suddenly stopped. He found himself holding his breath until, finally, there came a couple of knocks, and the door opened. 

“Martín. Are you awake?”

Despite the overwhelming desire for the bed to swallow him, Martín got up. He could do this. Well, no, he quite possibly couldn’t, but he definitely should.

“What.”

“I’m sorry.”

And wasn’t that the absolute worst thing for Andrés to say, because something snapped inside Martín’s head and he found himself pushing the other man, hard, until Andrés lost his footing. “What did you just say?” Another push, just as soon as Andrés regained balance, pushing him flush with the wall. 

“What did you say, _hijo de puta_. You’re sorry? Sorry for what, for playing with me all this time? Since that afternoon with your stupid rope, oh how I wish you’d hanged yourself with it instead of doing his. Do you even know that I have feelings? What am I saying, of course you know, you said so yourself; you know how you hurt me and you keep doing it. What’s wrong with you, who hurt you so badly that you feel the need to burn down everything you touch? You said you loved me; do you think I’m one of your women, gullible but ultimately disposable? Huh?" Another push, "You’re a fucking sadist, that’s what you are. This is why you’re into this kinky shit, isn’t it? You’re a sadist, a selfish fuck who just destroys everything you touch. Are you proud of what you did? Huh? Do you enjoy hurting me like this? Does this tickle you just right?

Andrés just stood there, taking it. 

“Are you trying to chase me away? Is this what you’re doing, then? Kicking me to the curb, like an unwanted dog?”

 _Because I won’t leave_ , he realised in the moment, and finally felt the flames of his rage begin to lessen. He would never leave.

“No.” Andrés finally spoke. “I do not enjoy hurting you.” It took him a few long seconds to speak again. “But I keep doing it over and over again. And you… you just take it. While feeling like you do, which is…” 

“A lot?” Martín asked, suddenly calm.

Andrés laughed. “Which is more than I deserve.” He slid down against the wall until he was seated on the floor, and Martín followed suit.

“I’m the one that should be sorry. For both my... outbursts. Sometimes I get so worked up that I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Loving you? Yes. Wishing you’d hanged yourself? No.” Martín thought for a second. “Well, maybe just a little bit.”

“Come here,” Andrés said, and Martín crawled into his arms, locked into the tightest of embraces. “I love you like I’ve never loved anyone in my life; it’s something so completely different with you; it’s unique and extraordinary. It’s marvelous. But it’s also scary as fuck.” 

“I know.” And Martín did. Turns out that finally - and unexpectedly - getting everything he’d secretly wished for was way more difficult to navigate than he’d ever thought. 

They stayed up until daylight came and life resumed its busy rhythm outside the windows. Andrés massaged Martín’s sore muscles, he even made a couple of middle-of-the-night espressos. Sat around the small kitchen table, they talked all night until all leftover anger and confusion dissipated. Though previously stingy with details about his personal life, Andrés had finally let the floodgates open, talking about everything and nothing. He’d talked about previous heists, previous loves and heartbreaks. He even talked about his childhood - his father, how his mother left him and eventually remarried, having Sergio, and how, despite all her attempts, Andrés never felt as loved as he did before. As protected. He recounted stories of how he met Martín, of their youth and misadventures. He even talked about his stint in prison and how he’d used the time to perfect further plans and build more connections. 

They had the same lavish car on the Frecciarossa on their way back, but this time there was considerably less talking; the sleepless night making them nap nearly the entire way back. Martín really hated the single seats this time around, wishing he’d be able to nestle close to Andrés in his sleep, but enjoyed the comfort nonetheless. 

The familiarity of their home seemed to instantly erase all the tension in Rome. They found themselves settling into their rhythm anew, focusing on the heist, working tirelessly to ensure a foolproof plan. Andrés was gone quite often, meeting with various contacts, and Martín found himself missing him like a lovestruck teenager. But that particular morning Andrés was home, and Martín, craving his company, decided to bring him some coffee. 

Andrés was caught in a heated conversation - with the hacker, it seemed - and he was nervously drumming his pen on the table. "What do you mean your firm got fired. Make another one and get the contract again!" He listened for a couple of seconds, "Well then get hired with the firm that _did_ win the contract!” A small pause. “Believe it or not, I do not have government contacts to intervene and get you hired.” 

Martín drew this strange enjoyment from seeing this intense side of Andrés, and sat down on the seat on the other side of the desk, pushing one of the coffee cups within his reach, studying him intently. Andrés thanked him with a curt nod, bringing the phone closer to his ear once more. “Can’t you add yourself to their payroll?” Martín heard snippets of the voice on the other end, and guessed that the answer was no. Andrés tightened his lips into a thin line, the pen escaping his fingers and flying under the desk. Taking one more sip of his coffee, Martín bent down to retrieve the pen, a clear plan of his own forming in his head. He pushed the pen further, under Andrés’ chair, and crouched fully under the desk until he reached Andrés’ legs. 

“Look, I don’t care how you do it, just-- I don’t know, don’t you have any connections working with that firm that can get you in? Wh-” He looked down, pulled out of his conversation by Martín’s hands caressing his inner thighs, reaching his crotch and starting to undo his pants. He tried to push Martín away, but he persisted, so he eventually decided to play along. He raised his hips a little so that the other man could pull the pants just a bit lower. “Ehm- yes, I understand you’re not the friends type but we aren’t here to discuss personal flaws. I was assured that you’re one of the best there is.” 

Martín buried his head in Andrés’ crotch, breathing hotly through the fabric, eventually taking his cock out of his pants and wrapping his lips around it. Andrés let out a quiet gasp, bucking his hips just a little bit at the heat leftover from the coffee that was still permeating Martín’s mouth. There was just the tiniest lag in his response, and Martín smiled wickedly and fully enveloped his hardening length. “Look. Sort this out, I don’t care how. I have to go, something came up.” With that, he disconnected the call, redirecting his attention fully to Martín. “What are you doing?”

Martín hummed, looking up to meet Andrés’ eyes. He let the cock slip out of his mouth. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m having my morning worship. Give me a sip of coffee.” 

“I don’t want burns on my dick, okay?”

“You weren’t complaining earlier. Give.” So Andrés did, and Martín took a sip, letting the bitter warmth fill his mouth. He made sure to swallow the coffee, maintaining eye contact like it was the dirtiest thing, and then leaned back in. Andrés once more bucked at the intense heat, spreading his knees further and leaning back in his chair, one of his hands caressing Martín’s hair. 

Martín took his time, enjoying the sounds he could draw out of Andrés, like playing a fine new instrument. Fists closed in his hair just right when Martín did his best to get all of Andrés’ cock in his mouth, eventually managing to do so, wishing so hard he could smell the musk and the _want_ that he’d become so familiar with. But there was time; lately he felt like they had all the time in the world and he wanted to enjoy it. He got up slightly, working to undo his own pants, snaking a hand in, grabbing at his own hardness. There was something about being there, on his knees, sucking cock under the desk of such an undeniably powerful man, but Martín was no longer a stranger to the feeling. Instead, he fed on it, the reality being more intoxicating than any fantasy he might have had. He found this submission exhilarating, and even though he was ashamed at first, he soon began to enjoy it for what it was - an exercise in giving up power, while being so powerful, still.

“Mmm, faster.” Andrés growled, but Martín had the audacity to lock eyes and mischievously shake his head no. “I wasn’t asking.” He shifted on the chair, getting to his feet, fists still knotted in Martín’s hair, forcing him up on his knees. “Like this.” He immediately drew his cock almost completely, then thrust himself back in. Martín looked up at him, tears pooling on the corner of his eyes as he gagged at the pressure. “I remembered you said you liked to be handled more roughly.” _Thrust_. “Is this good for you?” He drank in the look below him, pleading “yes”, until Martín closed his eyes so Andrés resumed thrusting, deep, until spit started dribbling down the lips surrounding his cock, making it slicker, sliding more effortlessly in the warmth that was so eagerly offering itself to him. Andrés moaned, “I love seeing you like this.” Seemingly all of a sudden, he noticed Martín moving his hand furiously around his own cock, and gave a small pull downwards on the hair between his fingers. “No. Hands off. You don’t get to come until I tell you. You interrupted an important call just now.”

Martín grunted in frustration but stopped touching himself, instead lacing his now bereft hand behind his back, with the other. The sight seemed to be exactly what Andrés was missing because he let slip a soft, “ _oh fuck_ ”, releasing Martín’s hair, fingers sliding to his cheeks, wiping his thumbs through the streaks of tears running down. “Look at me.” Martín barely had time to register the words, opening his eyes to see Andrés gasp, then grunt, looking with him with a ferocious intensity as he came, bitterness flooding Martín’s mouth in spurts. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back through the last thrusts, and eventually stilled, panting. “I love coming in that pretty mouth of yours.” An outstretched hand, and Martín got to his feet, hands around the nape of his neck pulling him into a hungry hiss. “And I love you.” Only Andrés could make such a string of filth end so romantic.

Andrés had eventually composed himself, combing his fingers through his hair, managing to almost look like nothing had happened. Martín, instead, sat awkwardly on the chair in front of him, his hardness still straining uncomfortably. 

“When _do_ I get to come?”

“When I tell you.” But it wasn’t the hint of a threat, more like a promise.

Andrés took a sip out of his now lukewarm coffee, sighing. “That was Alice. Her company lost the contract to a government firm. Fucking corruption; this is why I can’t spare remorse for these greedy fucks.”

“Shit. What’s the backup plan?”

“That’s it, we had no backup plan, it was a done deal. I have to think.” Martín took this as a cue to get going - which he did, frustrated that he apparently couldn’t relieve himself as well, but quite eager to see where it would all lead. 

They had dinner late, Andrés having been away for most of the afternoon. 

“I think we should abandon the plan, Martín.”

“What? Just because of the security firm?”

“I don’t want any improvisations, and we’re too far along to fuck it up due to last minute fuck-ups. My summer plans do not include prison.”

“Precisely, we have so much invested in this, we can’t back up now!”

“Martín. I don’t feel comfortable going ahead with this if everything isn’t within our control. It’s… it’s different this time.” At Martín’s confused look, he shook his head and continued. “I can’t justify the risk of losing you.”

And that was probably the best declaration of love that Andrés had ever made. But Martín was having none of this.

“No. We’ve been doing this for years, you know I’m more than competent. You know-”

“If things are not absolutely perfect, we are not going through with this.”

“So what, you want to retire just so you won’t put me in danger? No Andrés, this is who you are, this is who _we_ are. What are we supposed to do now; gainful employment, a pension fund?”

“I was thinking we’d go back to your plan to steal the gold.”

Martín was clearly surprised to hear that. It had been just a rough idea, more like scattered details - brilliant details, but details nonetheless, not a coherent plan. More like an idea he’d thrown around and they’d both toyed with before eventually dismissing.

“I mean, you know I’m not opposed to that. But that’s a huge undertaking, we’re abandoning an almost sure thing for a collection of disjointed ideas?”

“Don’t fall prey to the sunken cost fallacy. I value your safety - our safety - too much to jump into something that we don’t have full control over.”

“And you think something like stealing the Spanish gold reserve is going to be a foolproof plan? You know very well that chaos is inherent in life. Just like with this girl. One tiny detail completely out of our control falls out of place and we’re captured. Or dead!”

“I know. But in terms of return on investment… if we pull that off, we won’t have to work another day in our lives. No gainful employment, no pension plan, instead we live the rest of our lives on an island, one that we own even, doing whatever we want. Champagne for breakfast, buying a philharmonic to play us to sleep. I’d rather die perpetrating the biggest heist in the history of Spain than getting caught stealing a couple of Dalis.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd be bringing up ROI in a fic but where I am!


	7. The Painting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another typical morning at the Casa de Fonollosa, Martin thought, taking in the state of the both of them - and the sheets under them. Life had no business being that good.
> 
> [Narrator: It wasn't.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is what happens when a fic runs away from you and you try really hard to catch up to it. 
> 
> Or: when a life of crime doesn't care about your love life.

“What are you working on?”

“This equation, it’s been nagging at me all night. The numbers are all here, they’re trying to tell me something but I can’t see it just yet.”

Andres sat on the chair on the other side of the room, placing his coffee cup on the armrest. “Have I told you how much I love it that you dream in math? Sometimes I get strangely jealous that you speak this language that I can’t fully understand, and yet you twist it to write such beautiful poems, with such ease, with reverence even.”

“You do that with actual words. All the time.”

“But it’s easy with words.”

“It’s easy for you. Numbers are, strangely, less complicated.”

Andres laughs. “For you.” And he stops speaking, allowing Martin to get back to his notebook, pencil scribbling on paper in a broken rhythm. Every once in a while he tears his gaze from the pages, looking in the distance, right through Andres as if he wasn’t there, brows furrowing slightly before going back to the page, striking out parts with more lines than necessary and resuming scribbling once more. 

Andres picks up his sketchbook and a couple of pens and begins to draw - just details, the focus imprinted on eyebrows, the pencil caught between teeth, that far away look of a man transported to a different world, the forearm when Martin looped his fingers behind his neck to stretch and how light shone through the dark hairs there. The pages were getting full, and Andres’ inspiration had morphed into the buzz of arousal. He set the sketchbook by the chair and got up, walking slowly to the desk and taking Martin’s pen from between his fingers. They didn’t need to speak, Martin instantly understanding the unsaid words behind the eyes so he got up, allowing himself to be led to Andres’ bedroom - _their_ bedroom, now. 

“Get undressed. Wait here. I want to paint you.”

Martin wondered briefly exactly what kind of painting Andres had in mind and was just a little bit disappointed to see him returning with actual paint and brushes. 

“Lay on the bed.”

Martin obeyed, like he always did, splaying out, one hand under his head, wondering what kind of pose was expected of him. And where the canvas was. 

As soon as Andres dipped the brush in the puddle of ochre, he understood. That was going to be interesting. Andres crawled on top of him, palette still in hand and ran the brush along Martin’s abdomen, making him flinch at the cold sensation. “Sit still.”

It was spirals at first, stemming from right under his navel up to his collarbone, then from his forearms to his elbows. Long brush strokes, the paint drying long before the brush was lifted from the skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Cold, then wet, then the delicate tip of the brush hairs, over and over, and then, just as Martin closed his eyes to sink in the sensations, a tongue followed them, shoulder to neck. Teeth scraped gently at his chin, then a kiss, then Andres’ weight lay right on top of him, the paint slippery between their bodies as he arched his back.

“Turn.” 

The sheets would definitely need to be thrown away after this, Martin thought as he turned, spreading ochre smudges on the white sheets. Within seconds, the brush started to slither again, sliding in short strokes from his shoulders downward. But then it was fingers, the palette and brush tossed carelessly to the side, as Andres ran his fingers down, a silky soft massage, his touch getting harsher as the paint dried. 

“No, I want to look at you.” 

After a bit of shuffling, Martin sat on Andres’ lap, pushing the twisted sheet he’d gotten his foot caught in. 

“Hmm,” Andres hummed, reaching for the palette to run his fingers through some of the blue. “This is as close as I could get to your eyes. Look at me.” He painted stripes coming from Martin’s cheekbones to his jaw, then a line mirroring his cupid bow just above his lips. “Gorgeous.” And he reached up for a kiss, dirty fingers carding through Martin’s hair, pulling him closer. 

“Fuck me.” Martin whispered in the kiss. “Like this, now. Get in me.” And Andres complied, sucking on his still blue fingers, face twisting at the taste, tongue and lips tinged the palest shade of blue. It was not enough slickness, they both knew it, but Martin insisted anyway, grabbing Andres’ cock and guiding it just right. He decided to kiss through the burning pain, tasting the _offness_ of the paint, breaking away for a couple of seconds to hiss and still himself. He noticed the hunger in Andres’ eyes when pain was evident on his face and accepted the devouring kiss he got to mask it. The pain was soon turning into pleasure, even before he found himself fully seated, but he didn’t get to relish in this change because Andres buried his fingers in his hips and started to thrust up. Martin grabbed onto his shoulders, holding on. “Mark me.”

“What?” 

Without breaking rhythm, Martin said once more. “Mark me.”

It should have felt vulgar or immature, but Andres dove right in, lips closing on the outstretched neck in front of him, right where the shoulder met the neck, sucking, biting. Martin could only moan, his hips picking up the pace. 

“Every time I think I’m going to make this last, ah-” He threw his head back, Andres’ hand catching his shoulders, steadying him. “You go and do something like that. One of these days-”

“Do you want to come, love?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come.”

“Do you want my hand on you, too?”

“Oh god yes. Please.”

Andres murmured in agreement, snaking his hand between their bodies and grabbing the hard cock. “Like so?”

“Yes.” 

Andres gave a few jerks, then got his hand away, pushing Martin back, making him scramble to rearrange his legs, settling back against the mattress. Andres was on top of him, pushing himself in within seconds, pushing back at Martin’s shoulders when he arched off the bed at the sensation. “You only get to come if you don’t touch yourself. Can you do that?” Martin nodded; he found that his body had a way to just listen to Andres, no matter what his brain might have said. It didn’t take long, Martin tried to angle himself just right, and when he did all it took was a couple of strokes before he grabbed Andres’ head, finding his eyes. “I’m going to come. Can I come?” He only got a nod in response, and they both found themselves coming, a chain reaction started by Martin’s clenching and unclenching around Andres’ cock inside him. 

Just another typical morning at the _Casa de Fonollosa_ , Martin thought, taking in the state of the both of them - and the sheets under them. Life had no business being that good. 

*  
  


A week later, Andres announced that they were officially abandoning the Dali plan.

“All of it? It’s done?”

“I still have a couple things to settle, but yes. They get to keep their paintings, we get to keep the certainty of our freedom. Until the next one, that is.”

“The Bank of Spain.”

Andres just shrugged. “It seems that way, yes. I just can’t believe the amount of work we have to do for that one. We’ll certainly need more brainpower to make it absolutely perfect.”

“So, Sergio.”

“Sergio.” Andres nodded. “For starters.”

*

Martin wasn’t expecting Andres back so soon after he left, but he didn’t even turn when the door opened and closed behind him. “Did you forget-” And that’s as far as he got, because at the exact second he started to turn in his seat, something hit him on the side of his head.

He came back to his senses in the deafening sound of drums, or maybe just his heartbeat reverberating in his ears, his whole head alight with pain. He could feel the brunt of the screaming pain in one place, a singular, easily identifiable place on his temple, but it still radiated through his skull to his jawbone and even behind his eyes. It had suddenly gotten quiet - not in his ears, he realized, but around him, and he willed his eyes to focus. He seemed to be in their living room, but everything was thrown around, the signs of a struggle evident in all that chaos. And blood. When he tried to move he realised he was bound to the chair and wondered briefly if it would be wise to try and topple it over, maybe work his legs free if possible. 

A series of thuds coming from Andres’ room made him turn, trying to find the source of the sound. More shuffling, then a voice, then footsteps. Martin stilled, analyzing his options, checking the floor for any fallen object that he could use to cut his zipties. Nothing but a vase that was too far for him to break with his chair, and there wouldn't have been enough time for that either, what with the footsteps approaching quickly.

He didn’t need to see his face to know it was Andres; he knew even before he came into the room, his pale suit splattered with blood, slipping a phone in his pants pocket while the other held a very bloody knife. Without meaning to, Martin tensed up, senses suddenly on alert. 

“Oh god, Martin.” Andres walked up to him, dropping to his knees, taking the knife to the zip ties on his legs, then behind him, untying his wrists. “You’re okay.” He let the knife fall to the floor, where it bounced a couple of times with a metallic clang, then got his hands in Martin’s hair, touching their foreheads. “Are you okay though? Did they hurt you?”

“I think they just knocked me out, I don’t remember anything else. Who were they? What happened?”

“Turns out the Russian oligarch that we were supposed to sell the paintings to was not too pleased about our change of plans. Apparently it was my fault that he got to promise them to his wife. Fuck. I came as soon as I realised something was off. I thought I saw the same white car parked out front for the past couple of days, and today it wasn’t there, so I just had this feeling, and- Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Absolutely sure.” He lied, feeling like there were much more important things at stake than his possibly serious head injury.

“There were two of them when I got here, one was going through the things in my room, the other one had just finished tying you up and seemed like he was getting ready to beat some information out of you. I’ve neutralised them; the one tying you up is dead, the other will be out of it for a while, he’s tied up in the bathroom. We need to go, and we need to go now.”

Martin got up, swaying a bit, then tried to compose himself. “Right. I’ll get the stuff here, you get what's in your room. You know where I keep my emergency bag?”

“Same place?”

“Same place. Is the car out front?”

Andres nodded as he went to his room, and Martin started to gather all the notebooks and boxes from the desk behind him.

They were out in less than ten minutes, leaving almost all of their belongings behind. Andres took the time to put on a new jacket, but some blood splotches were still visible on the cuff of his shirt beneath it. He didn’t even seem to notice, he didn’t act like a man who had just taken a life. Martin wasn’t a stranger to this side of Andres - he’d seen him kill before, when their own lives were on the line, and always wondered how he managed to remain so matter of factly about it. Both during the act and afterwards, like it was nothing. Martin closed the trunk of the car and got in, sitting in the passenger seat, fidgeting for far too long before managing to buckle himself in. Now that he found himself in the relative safety of their car, he allowed himself to get overwhelmed.

“Fuck. How did they get to us? You said Sergio met with them, how did they get to us? Is Sergio okay? Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes, and yes. He’s really good at being a ghost, in spite of his deceptively harmless looks. And he suspects that the transport guys were the ones that lead them to us. He’s arranged with someone here to clean out our apartment and now we’re driving to this airfield a couple of hours away where we’ll board a small plane for Palermo."

“Will Sergio meet us there?”

“No. But he said he’ll have something ready for us when we get there.”

“Good.” 

“As soon as we’re out of town we’re pulling over, I need to patch you up. That’s a nasty looking injury.”

“No, I’m fine. Really, I just want to get out of here.”`

“Okay. We’ll do it on the plane then.”

“What happened to the guy who was tying me up?”

“I killed him.”

Martin had no idea why he’d asked. 


	8. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They relocate in order to escape the bad!Russians and Andrés takes some time to shop for a new place to live. 
> 
> Warning: roleplay, not a "fun" scenario. Things are said. Though everything is agreed upon and consensual.

They found themselves in Palermo for two months instead of the three weeks that Sergio initially told them. He still hadn’t come to see them in person and Martín was strangely relieved. He’d known Sergio for almost as long as he’d known Andrés, and he still didn’t know what to make of him. Sure, he was focused to the point of obsession on his plan involving The Royal Mint but Martín rarely saw glimpses of him as a person; and when he did, he got the distinct impression that Sergio simply didn’t like him. For no reason, too, as Martín was always nice, the worst he did was to indulge in a habit of flusering him with every occasion, but only because he found Sergio strangely  _ cute  _ when flustered. Either way, it didn’t warrant the veiled hostility he got - when he got any attention at all, that is - but he put up with it anyway.

Andrés was gone again, only for a couple of days he said, visiting some prospective properties to rent. Martín planned to work on the Bank of Spain heist but found that he was unfocused,  _ he suspected why _ , so he eventually decided to just read and idle instead. Two days became three, then four, and the more they became, the slower they seemed to go by. 

He’d finally had a productive morning, making some progress with the plan, but then afternoon came and Martín fell right back into his new routine of lounging and reading. He woke up in the middle of the night, flinching uncomfortably at all the muscles that hurt after having fallen asleep - again - on the couch. That’s when he heard it again; the noise he’d initially thought was just in his dream - it came from upstairs. Footsteps.

Martín jumped to his feet as soon as he remembered that he was supposed to be alone in the house, and started immediately going through his choices. Running away was not an option - where would he go? Above him, a faint voice speaking… was that Russian? He tiptoed to the desk in the corner of the room, looking for the gun they’d taped underneath it, and wasn't the slightest bit surprised to find that it wasn't there. Neither was the gun hidden underneath the kitchen counter, so it was clear that whoever was in the house had done a sweep before going upstairs. But why didn’t they attack him? Did they not see him? Hard to believe, the couch was in full view of the stairs. His musings were cut short when his legs got swept from under him, strong hands wrapping around his neck in a headlock as he was lowered to his knees. The last thing he saw were the white folds of a cloth covering his mouth and nose.

*

“Are you sure you’re okay with it?”

“I am more than okay with it, but I need to trust that you’ll stop me if things get too much.”

“I will.”

“Tesla. And when your mouth is covered?”

“Three taps in quick succession. No, I don’t need to demonstrate again, we both know I know it.”

“And you’ll hold something to drop and make noise if both your mouth is covered and your hands are immobilised.”

“Yes. We’ve been through this. Many times. Look, if you’re not completely comfortable, we’re not going through with it.” 

“I am, it’s just- It’s pretty different than anything we’ve done so far. It’s hard to gauge because you’re so fucking enthusiastic about this, but in fact-”

“It’s just pretend. And we both know exactly what’s happening. Let’s go through everything again.”

*

Eventually he came to, fuzzily remembering what had happened and instantly going on alert. The first thing that became evident was that he was still caught in a headlock. Instinctively his hands wanted to go up, to free himself, but found that they were bound behind his back. Not handcuffs, Martín realised; it had to be zipties judging by the way they cut into his wrists, tied tightly enough that he couldn’t get out of them. And then he felt some bunching against his arms: fabric - his captor was behind him, cradling him between his thighs, arranged in such a way that Martín could not claw at him. Planting his feet firmly, he tried to push up, to twist his way out of the hold but the arms around his neck tightened even more, threatening to cut blood flow. 

“What the  _ fuck _ is going on”, he rasped out. “ _ Hijo de puta _ , let me go!”

Gathering all his strength, he pushed against his feet once more, this time forcing the body behind him to follow. Of course the arms around his neck pulled and tightened again when he tried to twist and throw all his weight back, his vision getting blurry around the edges. What he didn’t expect, when getting brought to his knees once more, was to have his neck released, one hand almost helping him to the floor as if to lessen the impact. 

The other man then pinned him down against the floorboards, sitting his entire bodyweight on his lower back, pushing Martín’s head firmly against the floor.

“I don’t know what you want, but we don’t have it.” Martín managed to get out, his breath rolling a clump of dust gently across the floor. 

The other hand ran a blade up Martín’s inner thigh, firmly but not with enough pressure to pierce the fabric. “Oh, but you do.”

_ That voice. _ Martín tried to turn his head, to catch a glimpse - not that he needed to, not really. He’d know that voice anywhere. 

Andrés. 

“What the fuck-”

"Sssshhh. Don't overexert yourself. I need you in tip top shape for what I have planned."

"Andrés, what is happening, let me go-"

"No." The blade pushed higher, bunching up the fabric at the fold of his thigh. “You do have what I want. And I’m taking it.”

“What the fuck, Andrés. Let me go, what is this-”

“What I’m really disappointed in,” Andrés said with the tiniest of pushes against Martín’s head, “is that it’s so easy to do this to you. To capture you, to subdue you. Though you did put up a fight this time. I liked that.”

Martín understood the words but they refused to make any sense. “This time?”

“That was quite the feat of misdirection, wasn’t it? Back at the apartment.”

“What are you saying?” Martín didn’t even remember flashes of the attack, he only remembered the adrenaline of waking up and instantly getting into flight mode. “...the men?”

The weight above him shifted, and soon Andrés’ forehead pressed against his neck. “Martín, for such a smart man you can be awfully dense at times. There were no men.”

“No men.” Martín repeated, softly.

“No men. Just me.” The blade pushed up again, only for a couple of seconds, making Martín tense up in response. “So easy to prey upon, love. Though it’s also quite a delight, to be honest.”

“Why.” 

“Because ever since we began this… thing, this experiment, you’ve only made me weaker. And I am many things but not I am not weak, Martín.” He finally leaned into view; Andrés - but not  _ his  _ Andrés, the vicious, terrifying version of the man. “I finally understood that I can’t keep doing this, not with you making me hesitate, making me afraid.”

_ You could’ve just dumped me _ , Martín thought, but then there were so many other things he wanted to say that he couldn’t decide on just one.

“You’ll never leave of your own volition though, will you?” Of course Andrés could read his mind; he shouldn’t have been surprised, not after all this time. “I need to break you first, so thoroughly that you won’t ever want to come back. Not that there’s anything for you to come back to.”

An electric wave shot through Martín, just at the center of his being, and he felt sick. “What now?”

“Now?” The weight pinning him down lessened as Andrés stood up. “Now we’re going to have a bit of fun. Foreplay, you might say. But the kind that  _ I _ enjoy.”

Fingers grabbed Martín’s hair, forcing him upward, guiding him to his knees. 

“Now I know you enjoy it too.” Andrés positioned himself right in front of Martín, looking down with a satisfied grin. “That’s why I was wondering, do I need to keep this pressed against your throat?” he demonstrated, a thin cold line pressed to the side of Martín’s Adam’s apple. “Though it would be so appealing to see it move as you take my cock. Open.”

Martín’s body, his treacherous body, obeyed as it always did, and he opened his mouth. 

“Oh how I love to see that, how eager you are to please. Always hungry for my cock, aren’t you?” 

The knife retracted from Martín's neck and Andrés knelt and placed it in Martín’s bound hands, closing his fingers around the hilt. “If you manage to break free like this, you’ve earned it. I  _ do  _ love a challenge.” Then he got up to his feet, taking his half-hard cock from his pants. 

Martín welcomed the flesh when it touched his lips, allowing a small gasp. For a second, he didn’t know whether he should move, but then hands clasped around his head and pulled, forcing the cock deeper in his mouth. His eyes instantly fell shut and even though he was fully clothed he felt completely exposed, at Andrés’ mercy - of which he seemed to have very little, judging by the pace he set to thrust in Martín’s mouth. His jaw ached, spit dribbling down his chin and he fought for every one of the breaths that he could draw in between the assault of Andrés’ cock. He felt like a dirty marionette, used, rough handled - and he  _ loved _ it. Every once in a while Andrés withdrew completely, staring him down, hungrily, checking the knife in Martín’s hands - still firmly clasped. Even when he almost doubled over gasping for air, his grip around it did not give.

With a last deep push, Andrés retreated, falling to his knees, dragging Martín’s head to rest on his shoulder, then whispered breathlessly. “I love you, you know that?” Martín nodded slowly in response. “I love you so, so much  _ querido _ . More than you love your numbers, your equations. More than you love that physicist of yours, what was his name?” 

Martín managed a faint laugh. “You know his name.”

“Mmm. I love you more.” He guided them in a deep kiss, fingers smearing tears that Martín hadn’t even felt until then. “Fuck, I can’t keep this up, I want you.”

Martín slowly got to his feet, hands steadying him, then was drawn into another kiss before Andrés urged him to turn around and guided him, one hand planted firmly between his shoulder blades, to the large balcony doors, pushing him flush with the glass. It reminded him strangely of their first time, that afternoon in their old apartment, when he came literally facing his deepest desires.

“Don’t move.” Andrés let go of him and went to turn off the lights, the remaining brightness flowing from the hallway throwing mirror-like reflections on the glass. When he returned, he pressed himself against Martín’s back, finally taking the knife from his hand and cutting the zip tie. “Are you okay?” He let the knife fall and pushed it away with his foot.

Martín nodded.

“I want you right here, against the window. Good?” 

Another nod from Martín, who braced himself against the frame of the door and pushed his hips against Andrés’ groin as he undid his pants and lowered them. Martín smiled to himself when he heard the pop of something that could only be lube, then felt a slick finger press against his hole and his eyes rolled back in his head. They were both impatient, and Martín just spurred Andrés on, “ _ get on with it _ ”, “ _ I’m ready _ ” and “ _ please _ ” until he did, he withdrew his fingers, slathered more lube against his own cock, then aligned himself just right. “Relax,” came a whisper from behind him, and Martín tried to, focusing on his breath, but he still gasped when he felt the thick head of the cock breach him. He didn’t want any finesse, any hesitation so he pushed back again, fighting the hands sinking in his hips that tried to keep him still. When Andrés was fully buried inside him, Martín leaned his face against the glass, enjoying the coldness spreading across his flushed cheeks. Thank fuck, he thought, for all the afternoons spent enjoying each other lazily, unrushed, because he felt that this wouldn’t take long. 

He knew that Andrés could be gentle, he felt that he wanted to be gentle once more, perhaps trying to erase the pain of the words he’d said, but that was not what Martín needed. “Don’t hold back,” he said, and after a few seconds of hesitation, Andrés picked up the pace, thrusting out almost completely, then pistoning back in, again and again. The patch of fog on the glass by Martín’s face grew and shrank with his heavy breath, and he eventually pushed away from it, yearning for  _ something _ , the same overpowering feeling of need over want. Immediately Andrés picked up on his move, and in an homage to their first time, that mortifyingly satisfying experience, he grasped Martín’s cock in one hand, the other grabbing gently at his neck. 

“Is this what you want?” 

And it was, it was perfect. “I love this, I love feeling you, I love it when you fuck me like this, when you just. Take-” But Martín couldn’t get any further, couldn’t get out all that he wanted to let out with his breath almost punched out of his chest with every thrust. Instead, he gave in to the onslaught of sensations, now amplified by the hand jerking him roughly, rougher than he usually liked it, but in that moment, just the way he needed it. Martín could swear he felt it in his own groin, the approach of Andrés’ orgasm, even before he felt the thrusts become more erratic. In a perfectly sympathetic response, his own orgasm blossomed, come spilling across the glass and Andrés’ hand just as the other man gave his tell-tale moan and came as well, keeping him tightly, almost painfully pressed against himself.

*

Later, when they finally managed to get themselves to bed - Andrés refused the couch and had made him walk up the stairs with dangerously shaky feet - they were both exhausted.

Though they were both fighting sleep, Andrés really wanted to talk. “That was fantastic, love. Thank you for indulging me.”

“I wasn’t indulging you and you know it. But fuck damn, I’d forgotten how intense you can get.”

Andrés just laughed, uncharacteristically accepting to share the cigarette Martín offered. “It wasn’t too much?”

“No, it was just right.” 

“I'm sorry I couldn’t go through it all, I think.” He paused for a few moments, in search for words. “I know we discussed everything and I know you were into it, it’s just that this time I couldn’t bear it. Hurting you. Those words, you know I didn’t mean any of it, do you?”

“I do.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am. Now let’s sleep.”

“One last thing,” Andrés said, with a kiss to Martín’s forehead as he curled on his side. “The Russians; they won’t bother us again.” Martín raised his head just a bit, reading Andrés’ face. 

“What do you mean?”

“I took care of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a few wrong (and way too dark) turns and it took a while to take it to where it should be.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments! <3


	9. The Respite | Recalibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, when he taught Andres how to tango, Martin was surprised with how easily they moved together, that instant synchronicity of theirs, their lead-follow. Martin rested his head against Andres’ shoulder, allowing himself to enjoy the motions, getting a little light-headed with every step. They stopped. That smile again, and an outstretched hand, leading them to the bed.

Andres bought a monastery. Because of course he would. With monks who’d sworn an oath of silence that seemed to not include pleasant chit-chat in the hallways. Or singing. That were supposed to stay in their own wing, except for when they sometimes popped up, randomly, around their kitchen. However, Andres trusted them, and he trusted Andres. 

He had just finished doing the last buttons of Andres’ jacket and leaned in for a quick peck on the lips when he noticed Sergio in the doorway.  _ Well this is going to be fun, _ he thought, especially judging by the angry-mortified look Sergio was giving them. He was acting as if he’d found them doing much, much worse things - which, in all fairness, they had been doing until not long ago - not merely sharing an almost chaste kiss. 

“Andres, can I have a word?” Immediately, Sergio turned on his heels and stepped out. Andres shot Martin an amused look, shrugged, and went to follow his brother. They were barely a couple of meters away from the door, close enough that Martin swore he could hear that unconscious flick Sergio used when fixing his glasses.

“Really, Andres.”

“What, hermanito?”

“Martin. Really? As if what you already had wasn’t dangerous enough. What changed?”

“Quite a number of things, none of which you’d be comfortable knowing. Trust me.”

“So, are you really… together? As a couple?

“You could say that, yes.”

“But Andres, you know the first rule - a job can’t be poisoned by a romantic relationship.” 

“We’re lovers, if you need it spelled out.” Martin said, casually leaning against the doorway, eager to see Sergio’s barely perceptible flush and the way he immediately looked away. He loved doing this, making him slightly uncomfortable even if the price was ruining a conversation, as unpleasant of one as this might have been.

“Martin.” Andres just shot him a look, silently pleading him to stop. “Let’s go back inside. I called you here about the plan.”

Once back inside, Andres pointed to the Bank of Spain model that Martin had taken such care to build. 

"Wait, you mean... the Bank of Spain?”

“We’re going to melt the gold.” Andres said, proudly grabbing Martin’s shoulders and pulling him close.

Martin didn’t miss the sudden understanding on Sergio’s face, how an almost imperceptible wave of disappointment washed over him as he grabbed tighter at the papers under his arm. He saw it and understood; the nuances in the dynamic between Andres and his brother and how Sergio still remained, at heart, the little brother. 

“Once again, Andres. It doesn’t matter that you can get the gold out as long as you can’t get out of there yourselves.”

“But we know how to get inside. And with your help, and your connections, we can bring the plan as close to perfect as possible. We have the rough outline but you can help us make it into the true work of art that it can be.”

Sergio shook his head and placed the papers on a nearby chair. “Alright. Tell me what you have.”

*

Sergio finally retired to his room, and even though they had way more than they did at the beginning of the day, Martin felt like there was still a pretty important aspect that no one had truly addressed: the money. What with Andres’  _ buying and renovating a fucking monastery _ , their finances, though still more than sufficient, might not be enough for the sheer magnitude of their efforts. Sure, Sergio’s connections were priceless, but what they needed - so far at least - didn’t come in cheap. 

“Andres, there’s something we didn’t really talk about.”

Andres stopped unbuttoning his shirt. “What do you mean?”

“The money. We are going to need  _ a lot  _ of money for this.”

“Yes.”

“We both know what this means.”

“Yes.” Andres said, lips tightening in reluctant agreement. “But let’s not bring it into discussion at this stage, okay?”

Martin nodded. Though neither of them wanted to say it out loud, they’d probably have to do it after all: they’d have to go into the Royal Mint first. But they couldn’t tell Sergio just yet, or he’d lose all focus. 

*

“Are you sure he’s asleep?”   
  
“I don’t care, love. Sergio is an adult, and you can’t say you haven’t made it perfectly clear to him what’s going on between us. If he decides, for some mad reason, to visit us in the dead of night, he has what’s coming to him.”

Martin wasn’t happy with the answer, standing with his arms folded at the foot of the bed. 

“Oh my dear Martin, when did you become so shy?”

“You know it’s on my ‘hard no’ list; getting caught.”

“But why settle in this gorgeous chapel if not to completely defile it?”

“Defiling will resume, as scheduled, but after your brother leaves. All that time he spent in the hospital as a kid, it wasn’t for his heart, was it? We can’t afford to lose him.”

They eventually settled on picking another room in one of the adjacent corridors to ‘play in’, as Andres put it.  _ Oh God _ , Martin groaned internally, they had a  _ playroom _ , just like in that awful book Andres bought him, hopefully in a failed attempt at humor. But yes, they had a room, with a door and with a lock that worked, and with no electricity. Grand.

Martin started to light a couple of the candles but Andres asked, to no one’s surprise, that he light all the candles in the room. All hundred or so of them. Martin thought about fires, how fast they’d spread in that particular setting, about the mortifying prospect of losing all their work. He wondered whether Andres insured the place when acquiring it, but was fairly sure it was a given, so he almost relaxed. 

Almost, because Andres’ gaze was fixing him silently from where he stood, in the middle of the room. And even though they were both wearing houserobes, Andres still looked as sharp as in one of his bespoke suits, his effortless elegance a stark contrast to the decrepitness of the room All he had to do was smile, that crooked smile of his, wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, and Martin felt a trapdoor give in his heart as he walked towards him slowly. 

Andres’ arms welcomed him in a kiss, as they always did, always; then grabbed Martin’s hand and placed his other palm on his lower back. There was no music, and Andres wanted to  _ dance _ . 

Years ago, when he taught Andres how to tango, Martin was surprised with how easily they moved together, that instant synchronicity of theirs, their lead-follow. Martin rested his head against Andres’ shoulder, allowing himself to enjoy the motions, getting a little light-headed with every step. They stopped. That smile again, and an outstretched hand, leading them to the bed. 

The sleep mask that Andres had put on him made all of his senses heighten - though there was nothing in that room, behind his closed eyelids, nothing but Andres’ calm breathing and the wet laps of his tongue. Martin didn’t even know how long they’ve been at it, Andres patiently kissing and licking at every inch of his skin, pushing his leg slightly to nip at the crease of the thigh, lifting his arm to lick, unexpectedly, ribcage to armpit. There was nothing to ground him, Andres hadn’t said a single word, maneuvering him slowly from his back to his front, making his skin light up in places that hadn’t even been touched. 

He was laying on his stomach, hands so heavy at his side that he felt like the mattress was swallowing them more and more, and then he felt Andres shift, break all points of contact with his skin. A second, two, three; who even knew anymore. Martin gasped and arched off the bed when he felt the first drop of  _ burn _ on his skin, a point of pain that quickly cooled and hardened on his skin. Candle wax. Then another drop, then another and another, not giving him enough time to fully process the new sensations. 

His mind jumbled everything like it always did when he was like that, pain? What pain; everything was radiating pools and lines of pleasure, cooling from the outside in; he felt each and every one of them and how they slightly pulled at the peach fuzz on his skin and then everything was moving,  _ he _ was moving. Andres rolled and rearranged him to be on his back but Martin could not protest. He couldn’t do much of anything, especially after the first drop landed on his chest and he felt himself raise up and above his skin, like vapor, with every breath. An unnatural sense of peace overtook him, and he melted, peeling away and out. 

He was lifted, shoulders first, out of himself, up and up, and above. Birdsong, wind softly whooshing between branches. Their safe house in Palermo. The front of the house, the balconies, the trees; he was floating slowly, aware of every detail even though he didn’t even feel like he was looking with his eyes. He couldn’t see it, but he felt it - their presence, the both of them, him and Andres, like two cells that had fused together and were impossible to separate again. The bubble of feather-light sensations didn’t seem constrained by trivial things like time, and Martin existed there, occupying that space that wasn’t space, feeling everything inwardly, allowing himself to get engrossed in the sensations.

And then it was all gone, and he came back, yellow light burning holes through the celluloid of his mind film as the mask was lifted from his eyes. Andres was looking at him, lips parted, eyes full of wonder. _ Kiss me, _ Martin thought and Andres must have heard that because he leaned in, grabbing his face gently, pressing his lips sweetly against his parted mouth. 

“Are you alright, love?”

Martin nodded, he was sure, though his body was slow to give him feedback, but he must have because Andres smiled and arranged himself to lay beside him on that too-narrow bed. 

“Can you talk?” 

“Mhmm.” Martin said, lazily, sure in this ability though unable to demonstrate.

“Where were you just now? I think- No, I’m pretty sure you were in subspace.”

Much like someone who absolutely did not have the ability to talk, Martin nodded. 

“Can you tell me how- Do you want to tell me what that was like?”

“Mmgood.”

“I’ve seen you on the edge before, right before slipping off, but you were never this… gone.”

“Palermo.”

“Hm?”

Words came back to Martin, he felt them, but also didn’t know if they would be enough to paint a picture.

“I saw us, in Palermo. Well, I didn’t see, but I felt us. And the house. And it was sunny, and the birds, and everything was  _ so calm _ . The sun was so bright, Andres. So bright!” The words felt too flat to paint exactly what he’d experienced, like explaining a dream, but unlike a dream, the image and that outworldly feeling lingered.

“That sounds beautiful, love. I’m glad you got to experience that.”

Martin felt protected, he felt loved. As he shifted to be closer to Andres, he thought back to a couple of other times when he felt himself float away, when his mind wanted to go numb, when all he wanted was to surrender, but he had always jolted himself back in the moment. He knew about subspace, of course he knew, he’d been doing his diligent research, but had never felt himself truly slip in. Maybe that first time, in their old apartment, before that mirror, that was the first time he felt something similar, but this had been orders of magnitude larger. 

He was shivering, and Andres pulled the covers from the floor where they’d fallen, covering them both as best he could. He barely felt a kiss against his shoulder right before sleep took over.

*

They woke up too late, too cold, but Martin was relieved to discover that Andres had extinguished the candles at some point. The narrow, uncomfortable bed made them both groan when they had to get up and Martin was already planning to look for a better room at the first opportunity that presented itself. 

When they went to the kitchen, way too late for breakfast, they found Sergio there, staring quietly out a window, an empty cup of coffee at his side. He seemed relaxed, for a change - one of the few times Martin had seen him look so …approachable? His expression changed entirely when he saw them and he turned stern, almost angry.

“Good morning.” 

“Good morning, hermanito. Sleep well?”

Sergio nodded, and Martin kept reading his face, looking for any signs of embarrassment, any bashfulness. There were none, but Martin knew Sergio wasn’t alright with the two of them being  _ lovers _ , as he’d put it, definitely not yet - if ever. So he resisted the urge to resume his teasing and instead offered a refill on his coffee, which Sergio refused.

“I’m leaving this afternoon. I have a few things to set up but I’ll be back in about a week. Martin? I’ll need you to explain your calculations to me again, and give me the numbers. I think I know some people who can help us but I need to have as much information as possible so we can get an idea of whether it’s even possible. Andres? Let’s go for a walk - just the two of us.”

And Martin gracefully retreated to the chapel, wondering if he’ll ever be truly accepted by Sergio. 

Andres returned a while later, clearly having had an argument with his brother. Martin knew better than to engage at those moments, all he had to do was wait and he’d find out anyway. Sure enough, after pacing around the table for a few minutes, Andres started.

“For a man that knows so much, Sergio sure knows very little. You know, sometimes I wish he didn’t get caught in dad’s madness and he got to _ live!  _ To truly experience life, with all its joys and disappointments. He still believes that he can control everything, you know? But he doesn’t trust me to control-” He sighed. “I’m going for a walk.”

Martin knew they’d been fighting about him, too - it wouldn't have been the first time. Sergio didn’t mention anything about it, though, when he came back for Martin’s calculations, and honestly Martin preferred it better that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd write a smut-free chapter and look where that got me. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, @ dormarunt for a rope-free experience!


	10. The Garden of Otherworldly Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín was drawn to Andrés like a beacon, always finding his way back to him and picking up like no time at all had passed. Martín caught snapshots of Andrés’ life - a new girlfriend, a new wife, new heists, a surprising stint in prison. Still, everything was unchanged between them, and once they reconnected they functioned again like the two halves of a whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this while I was coming down from general anesthesia (unexpected surgery, do not recommend) so some bits may sound discordant with the previous chapters, but I actually like it. Hope you do, too!

There are people you are attracted to, like magnets, from the very second you meet. You spend time together, maybe even years, sharing more and more until your lives intertwine seemingly permanently.

And then you stop. Life has a way of _happening_.

Years go by, and you meet again. Hesitantly, you greet each other, and the future can go either one of two ways. 

The first path hurts the most; the poles shifted, the forces no longer in sync. The thing that made you one, indispensable to one other -- gone. You are now different people, both separately and together. You are just acquaintances, and try as you might you can’t scratch the surface any deeper than superficially. Then you say goodbye, and you both understand that the bond is gone. It is what it is.

But then there’s the second path, the one where you take up where you left off as if time hasn’t passed, as if life hasn’t scarred you both in new and interesting ways. You gravitate back with ease, and things fall back into your so familiar rhythm.

Martín and Andrés found each other on that second path, over and over again. Martín was drawn to Andrés like a beacon, always finding his way back to him and picking up like no time at all had passed. Martín caught snapshots of Andrés’ life - a new girlfriend, a new wife, new heists, a surprising stint in prison. Still, everything was unchanged between them, and once they reconnected they functioned again like the two halves of a whole. 

They had been together for over three years at that point, and even though their relationship had shifted, they were still sharing the same cocoon. Martín was truly grateful for all of it. 

Lovers, he’d called it. After so long, they’d truly found each other. Love had turned into _in love_ , and like everything about the two of them, it was immovable, a constant. Martín thought back to the first time they’d met, about their first years together, when they still spent time apart, when they were decidedly different people. He was sure they couldn’t have worked then the way they did now; they needed the blessing of time passed and experiences accumulated. They both had a chance to grow, to win, to lose, to learn. Maybe that’s why they worked so well as a couple, the fact that they had the time to invest in who they were separately before leaning into each other together, building that whole. 

It was beautiful, refreshing and overwhelming at once. 

There were times when Martín - secretly, he daren’t even use the word in his mind - thought of Andrés as his husband. That word however, the concept itself felt so heavy, loaded with history and memories and hurt. 

One day, when Andrés was preparing one of his beautifully intricate meals in the cluttered kitchen of the monastery, Martín let that thought out.

"Let’s never get married.”

Andrés stilled, eventually setting down the knife he was holding. They’d never even talked about it.

“I know you’ve done this before, several times. I was even there for a few of them. I know what they mean.” _To you_ , left unspoken, but still felt by both. “If you ever feel the need to, I don’t know. Propose. Don’t. This means much more, to not need anyone’s approval or formal acknowledgement of who we are together.”

Martín was grateful for the fact that Andrés didn’t say anything; he just smiled, softly, warmly, and nodded. 

And then Martín felt absolutely stupid for bringing it up, out of the blue, so presumptiously. Andrés was clearly still processing Martín’s newest unwarranted burst of emotions, silent until he put the tray in the oven and closed the door.

“Can I still give you the ring that I had prepared though? And will you wear it?”

Martín laughed.

Of course he would. And he did.

  
  


A week later, Sergio returned, and if he noticed the mismatched bands they both wore, he didn’t say a word. He was still guarded around Martín, occasionally cornering Andrés to whisper warnings - about him, he’s heard his name uttered more than once. Fine. Two could play at that game, and Martín knew it wasn’t even a fair game since he’d won it long ago.

Sergio didn’t want a ‘scene’ by the looks of it so Martín waited. He waited until Andrés was out, contacting some of his connections that could help with their plan, and when they were alone, he confronted Sergio.

“I know what you’re worried about, Sergio, but you are blind to the big picture.”  
  
Sergio looked alarmed for a fraction of a second, then steeled himself. He clearly understood that they were doing it, they were having that talk. He squared his shoulders.

“I don’t think you should be involved in the heist.”

Martín laughed, incredulous. 

“I shouldn’t be involved in the plan that I practically came up with? In the plan that Andrés and I got off the ground? And why is that?” He knew the answer, but needed to hear it from Sergio himself.

“You cannot be trusted. You are unpredictable, a loose canon. I’ve seen how you handle pressure, how you handle being challenged. And believe me, you’ll be challenged plenty, a heist is a chaotic microcosm, and no matter how hard you try, things will get out of hand. Andrés knows it, I’m sure you know it as well.”

“I know it, hermano. I know all of it very well. But I’m prepared for chaos, I welcome it. I’m too proud, is that it? You’re afraid I’ll betray Andrés? Betray you, the rest of the team, betray the plan? Well, okay, I concede. You, I’ll betray in a heartbeat, you and anyone on our team, anyone that stands in the way. But Andrés? And especially the plan - _our_ plan? Never. I’m sure you know by now that I love your brother. I love him more than I love myself, and trust me, for someone with the amount of self-hatred that I harbor, I love myself plenty. But I’d die for Andrés. I’d die for the plan. So if it’s the plan you’re truly worried about, don’t be. Equally, if you’re worried for Andrés-” He shook his head, trying to get his temper under control. He knew Sergio was right about a few things, after all. “Sergio, I love Andrés. He’s indispensable to me, he’s my other half. Don’t try to get in our way, because you’ll lose. And I don’t want you to lose, I don’t want to come between you and your brother. We need you. _I_ need you to help us finish this beautiful poem that is our plan.”

“Poem, huh. I see that my brother has really rubbed off on you, hasn’t he?”

Martín snorted, and Sergio instantly turned a particular shade of scandalized, the one that Martín enjoyed so much to see. Sergio just threw his hands in the air and left.

A win. Probably. 

He’d find out sooner or later.

  
*

“What did you say to Sergio?” Andrés had cornered him, quite literally, where he sat behind a makeshift desk in the chapel. “He’s… stranger than usually.”

“Stranger how? What did he say?”

“That’s it, he said nothing. Not one thing, not even an offhand remark. He even referred to you as my _lover,_ without any hint of a disparaging tone for once. What happened?”

“We just had a chat, that’s all.”

“Anything I should be worried about?”

“Quite the opposite, I hope.”

“That better be the case. We need him.”

“We do.”

*

As Martín approached the chapel, he heard the two brothers arguing again. 

“Andrés, you have to understand, this plan of yours is pure madness. Even with all of the details that we’ve strung together into something more cohesive, even with my connections, with everything. It’s suicide. It won’t work. You won’t get out of there alive, is that what you want? Because if it is, you can count me out.”

Andrés noticed Martín standing in the long corridor and beckoned him over. It was time.

“Hermanito, what we're about to tell you will change everything. And, overall, nothing. Martín?”

“We need to hit the Royal Mint first if we want to have any chance at the gold. We need you Sergio, and you need us. We’re here. Let’s do it.”

And that’s when Martín saw it for the first time, saw Sergio smile, warmly, sincerely, full of hope. Happy, even. Maybe he’d warm up to Martín, after all. 

*

It was late - way too late for the amount of work that was waiting for them the following day - but they were still up. Martín had found a more appropriate room to ‘play’ in and spent a couple of days to make it more accommodating: he’d wired it for electricity, brought in a bigger bed, did some minimal decluttering. 

It was still chilly, random currents of air rushing from under the door and between the window panes, but Martín didn’t mind at all. He lay on the bed, watching with fascination as Andrés tied his wrist to his ankle in what seemed to be a column tie, before going up and securing his elbow to his knee. They’d long discarded the book that Andrés had used in the beginning, now exploring freely all the possibilities the ropes provided them and Andrés was, as it was to be expected, nothing short of an artist. For that evening, however, he decided against one of his intricate full-body harnesses in favor of something more simple, something that would allow Martín to be fully exposed and securely constrained. 

Martín was laying on his back, legs spread out wide, arms tied to his shins and shivering with all the effort it took to not close his legs in a futile attempt to either dull or enhance the pinpricks on his thighs that the flogger had left. His breath was shallow and, as Andrés knelt on the bed, leaning on top of him to steal a kiss, he felt himself drift once again. After that last experience with subspace he recognized the signs easier now, and he was eager to let himself go. 

“What do you want?” 

It was hard to speak, he had to forage for thoughts, for words, but he finally managed to rip himself away from the pleasant buzz to hoarsely whisper in Andrés’ ear.

“I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want to feel you tomorrow, still.”  
  
Andrés’ eyes were burning as they met his own. He smiled, all control and intensity. 

“No.”

Martín’s initial surprise quickly morphed into amusement and then he started to laugh. Soft at first, then getting really caught up in it, guffawing and trying to catch his breath. He tried to move a hand to wipe away one of the tears that were tickling his cheek but the rope stopped him, and the reminder that he was still tied up pushed him into another fit of laughter.

Andrés’ whole demeanor changed, from feral and languid to immediately concerned. “Are you okay? Do you need to word out?”

A snort caught in Martín’s throat as he laughed, and the sound of it only made him laugh harder. He eventually stopped enough to breathe deeply a couple of times and say “I’m okay. It’s fine.”

“Really. You seem hysterical. I’m putting a stop to this.”

Martín let out a big sigh and stopped for a moment before dissolving into more giggles. “I’m sorry. Yes, okay, stop.” His erection had flagged away and he let his head fall back as Andrés started to undo the ties. 

“What was that? Did I hurt you?”

“No. I mean yes, but in a good way, you know? But no. It’s... “ he looked for words, his face once more lit with an apparently impending bout of laughter. “I think I accidentally pulled myself out of the headspace at that absolutely quintessential sadist-masochist exchange. You know, the ‘ _please hurt me - no_.’ part,” he clarified when Andrés showed no signs of understanding.

“So you’re okay.”

Martín nodded.

“Did I kill the mood?” Martín inquired as Andrés settled beside him on the bed.

“A little, yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for, love.” 

Andrés. That man, that infuriating man; Martín was still surprised to discover that unconditionally caring side of him, such a contrast to how ruthless he could be, how fierce and decisive. Sometimes he wondered if he had been the same with his girlfriends, his wives, if they got to see that side of him, but he didn’t much care, truth be told. He knew that despite their agreement to have an open relationship, neither of them had taken up on the possibility to sleep with other people, and was thrilled to be the only one to experience that side of Andrés. 

The tingling in his thighs was soon forgotten because their cuddling slowly turned into passionately making out and Martín still marveled at how kissing Andrés still felt so different to kissing anyone else. It didn’t help that Andrés was kissing him like he wanted to consume him, all hands and tongue, pulling him closer, moaning deeply. Andrés slipped on top of him, pinning Martín under his weight, rolling his hips, grinding his hard cock against Martín’s then rushing to capture his moan in a kiss. He kept slowly grinding his hips as he rested his forehead against Martín’s, eyes screwed shut as if in pain.

“Fuck. I didn’t know- I don’t understand how you can make me feel like this, Martín.” He went back in for a kiss, lazy, soft, trailing his tongue across Martín’s upper lip and then placing hot pecks at the corner of his mouth and along his cheeks. His tongue traced the shell of Martín’s ear, sending new shivers down his spine, then sucked at the lobe gently and then dipped lower, tonguing and sucking at his neck. “I love you, querido.” Andrés said, almost reverently, his hot breath raising goosebumps across Martín’s skin. “I love you beyond what language can convey; fuck-” He got back to take Martín’s face in his arms, eyes wide, and he shook his head slightly, clearly struggling to find his words.

Not that Martín wanted more words, he realised as he stretched out for a kiss. He felt drunk, light-headed in the best of ways, and when Andrés broke the kiss and looked at him, wonder, love and lust combined, he nodded at the unspoken question. Yes, always yes. 

Andrés got up just enough to reach for the night stand and grab the bottle of lube, going back for another kiss, all tongue and no finesse, before getting to his knees and uncapping the bottle. The way Andrés looked at him, fuck, Martín could barely take it sometimes without feeling like his heart would burst. After coating his fingers with lube, Andrés lay back once more, resting his weight on one elbow, the fingers of his other hand going straight between the thighs that Martín readily spread out. He could read Martín’s body fluently by now, understanding what was not enough and what was too much, even when Martín was too far gone to separate sensations. 

But this wasn’t a _scene_ , there wasn’t any sort of power dynamic; this was them, just the two of them, their bodies trying to translate the depth of feelings. Martín, though usually rushed, usually hungry, allowed Andrés to prepare him slowly, getting lost exploring his mouth until he silently nodded and Andrés retreated his fingers, using the leftover slickness to give himself a few strokes. He guided his cock in, easing himself slowly until he was fully buried, and rested his head under Martín’s chin, trying to control his breathing. 

He was still using one hand to support himself but Martín really wanted to feel his weight on him, heavy but reassuring. He forgot all about it when Andrés took his hand in his own, interlacing their fingers, resting awkwardly on his elbow to take Martín’s hand to his lips and press a soft kiss to his fingertips. “You are a treasure, querido,” he whispered against his knuckles, “I don’t need the money, the gold. You are everything I want.” And Martín didn’t know if it was the chemicals in his brain or the heavy fog of emotions, but he _believed it._

The windows rattled slightly and Martín realized there was a storm, rolling thunder filling the air, and he thought how fitting that the electricity coursing around them echoed outside as well. Andrés was a force of nature too, unstoppable once he set his mind on something, formidable in so many ways. Martín was ready to walk to the end of the world for that man, and he’d thank him once he got there. 

Even when Andrés lifted Martín’s legs to rest them against his shoulders he didn’t pick up the pace, using the better angle to thrust deeper still, keeping a punishingly slow rhythm. There it was again, that sensation that seemed to raise up the back of his throat as he exhaled, the one coming up in vapors, the one that took him away slowly until he was there and he wasn’t. Martín still heard the thunder rumbling, muffled and distant, all sounds fading except for their labored breaths and Andrés’ occasional moans, and abruptly he came back, desperate to be present and to feel absolutely everything. That whine, that was him, it must have been him because Andrés quickly found his eyes, trying to read his mind through them, but Martín just kissed him, and once more, Andrés understood. 

He sat up, briefly pulling out and rearranging themselves, helping Martín to straddle him, wrapping an arm around his back, the other planted firmly behind him. Martín took over, leaning back in search of _that_ angle, and when he found it, eyes shot wide in a silent moan, he began to slide himself with purpose. It took a second to find a rhythm that had Andrés throw his head back, allowing Martín to admire the long line of his neck, the faint stubble on his jaw, his lips parted as he moaned softly. Those lips, he couldn’t resist them, not ever, so he pushed himself up and cupped Andrés’ head, guiding him up until they were deep in a kiss, messy, breathless, gasping for air as they both seemed to forget how to breathe. 

“I’m really close.” Andrés whispered, teeth faintly biting at Martín’s chin, bracing himself once more and thrusting sharply, barely managing to keep up a steady rhythm. Martín was close too, closer still once he grabbed his own cock and started to jerk himself slowly at first, then faster as he found he couldn’t stop himself. When Andrés’ fingers curled around his shoulder, he sped up, his thighs aching as he pushed himself up and thrust down, chasing the end of that slow buildup, and then there he was, right on the precipice. “Kiss me” was all he managed to say and Andrés was quick enough to come up for a kiss, swallowing his moans as Martín came, hips stilling for a second as he spilled, hotly, between their bodies. Andrés gave a few more broken thrusts before he buried himself deep and came too, head falling back with a moan, fingers squeezing tightly around Martín’s shoulder. Martín loved to watch him like that, to drink in that rapt look on his face, oscillating between pain and reverie. And to know that it was himself that brought that on, it was intoxicating. 

The storm had passed by the time they settled back on the bed, Andrés draping the sheets over their sweaty bodies, pulling Martín in the crook of his elbow. They didn’t speak for the longest time and Martín was on the verge of falling asleep when Andrés pulled him back with a question.

“How did you know I was going to propose? I tried to not give anything away and you still knew.”

“I didn’t know.” 

Andrés seemed slightly incredulous, but accepted his answer.

“I love you, Martín.”

“This I do know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it; this is the end. Or at least, the end for now. I took the time to rename all chapters, to re-read bits.  
> It was quite a fun ride to get this out, and while it may not be perfect, I'm quite fond of it. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking through and for reading, I am grateful for each kudos and for each comment, they all brighten my day!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @DorMarunt! I do have a couple of ideas but I could always use more prompts or you know. Interacting with other people that are equally into this beautiful, _infuriating_ show, and the dreamboat that is Belermo! <3


	11. Self-Portait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >   
> “I know. It’s not that, I don’t mean that. The intensity in Palermo, that anger; I’ve never seen those in you before. To be honest, they scared me at times.”
>> 
>> “I was who I had to be for the plan to succeed.”
>> 
>> “And you were brilliant.” He punctuates that with a kiss on Martín’s hair, that he quickly leans into properly. Andrés doesn’t linger in the kiss though. “I was just thinking- I’m not sure I can connect that with your need to submit.”  
> 
> 
> This is a continuation of the series, but it can be read as a standalone fic.
> 
> It's set 6 months after both Martín and Andrés do the Mint heist. They've been separated by Sergio as means to punish Martín, and when Andres finally finds his way back to him, he can't reconcile in his head the Martín he knows with the Palermo he's seen during the heist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It features some degradation kink - though it's consensual and safe, pre-negotiated (think their agreement on the train), comes from a place of love and is well-received.

“What do you need?” Andrés turns his head to see Martín where he lays against his chest, lost in his own content haze.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve talked kinks, we’ve found what works for us. But I still can’t say that I understand-” He stops for the longest time. Martín is about to say something when Andrés continues. “What do you get out of this? Out of submission?”

“That’s a very big question.”

“I’ve given it some thought, especially after- everything that’s happened, and I’m not sure I understand anymore.”

The heist at the Royal Mint happened. They were prepared, of course they were, but not for everything. The thing had gone wrong in so many ways, and even with Sergio’s outstanding ability to foresee and mitigate all kinds of risks, there was so much that had gone out of hand. It had been tense in ways that no one could have predicted, especially not Sergio, who, for a near genius, did not quite seem to fully understand human nature. 

But they’d made it out alive - most of them, at least. Oslo and Moscow did not make it, and oftentimes it seemed like the worst enemy was not on the outside, waiting to barge in, but inside, within their team, within their very minds. The heist had changed them all, some in smaller ways, others fundamentally. Still, in the end they made it out alive, rich as gods and determined to lay low for a while.

Which they did. It’s been six months. Six months that Martín had to spend on his own, as means of punishment for what he’d done. It was supposed to be longer, or maybe even indefinitely, but Andrés managed to ply his brother and get Martín’s location.

Six months, a tear-filled reunion and a desperate fuck later, there they were, finally back togethger, and Andrés had questions.

“I’ve seen you in the Mint. I know you, Martín; I know who you are and what you can do. I didn’t know Palermo.”

“What do you mean?”

“Berlin was, how can I put it. Berlin is me, but untethered by any societal convention, by the roadblocks that keep me functioning within the social contract. But inside the Mint, in the small mockery of a society that we had in there, the rules were different. The balance of power was different, and the role we had to play was much grander than anything acceptable outside those doors. See, I know Berlin. I may not like him at times, but I know him. Just as I know you, Martín. But Palermo? There were sides of him that completely surprised me. Not necessarily in a bad way, mind you, just- It made me feel like maybe I don’t know all of you.”

“You do know all of me. I’ve never hidden anything.” _If anything, I say too much,_ thought Martín, who’s heard that exact phrase from several people. “You never mentioned it when we were inside; why?”

“It was definitely not the time nor the place for this talk. The last thing we needed in that madness was more heavy discussions like these. You’ve seen the others. We, most of all, needed to maintain focus, and you know how hard it was with everything else that was going on.”

Martín’s confused for a bit at the way Andrés’ mind is jumping through connections that only he can see.

“I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Martín was the one who sat beside me, who changed my bandages. It was still Martín who broke down that door when Tokyo was playing her little game of Russian Roulette. Palermo though, it was him who shot Arturo.”

“That asshole _shot_ Tokyo-”

“I know. It’s not that, I don’t mean that. The intensity in Palermo, that anger; I’ve never seen those in you before. To be honest, they scared me at times.”

“I was who I had to be for the plan to succeed.”

“And you were brilliant.” He punctuates that with a kiss on Martín’s hair, that he quickly leans into properly. Andrés doesn’t linger in the kiss though. “I was just thinking- I’m not sure I can connect that with your need to submit.”

“Oh no, we’re going into psychology now? You know, no matter how hard you try to argue, psychology is not a science - certainly not an ‘exact science’; how can you say that with a straight face? _Physics_ is an exact science. Science has facts, you can test them and they’re always true. Psychology is, at best, guesswork.”

“It’s not--”

They’ve had this argument before, and it’s one of the few points that they can’t agree on, usually because Andrés insists on making everything into a small competition. Oh art? Art is science, the brushstrokes, color theory. Poetry? Science, with its cadence and all other inner workings. Martín usually half heartedly agreed but he lost it the time when Andrés uttered those outrageous words, that psychology was an exact science. Because, seriously. But he won’t fall for that again. 

“Okay, the way I see it-” He stops, digging for words. He felt that he could never be as eloquent as Andrés was - and, let’s face it, few people were - but being by his side has still improved his skills. And, why lie, he’s given the subject some thought too, though it was long ago, when they first got into things. He pushes to sit, taking in Andrés as he was laying across his sheets, all spent, exhausted, but with that soft look in his eyes that he only kept for Martín.

“It’s a matter of trust, first and foremost. And I trust you completely. I can be safe there, I know you’ll take care of me, I know I don’t have to make any decisions. I don’t have to be anyone; I’m just myself, and I know that it’s enough. I also know I’m still in charge - that’s why we discuss things first, even though by now we tend to know what the limits are - I know I’m in control even though I’ve given you the reins. It’s pretty textbook, really. I’m no mystery, cariño.”

“And the pain?”

“The pain is something else, I give you that. I wasn’t expecting it.” But the second he understood it? Catharsis. “It’s liberating, moreso than just submission; it somehow takes me out of my head, out of my skin. When I need it, it’s, well, I guess it’s mostly for the endorphins, but it’s also cleansing, in a strange way? But again, this isn’t anything you didn’t already know from reading about it.”

“And- Palermo.” 

Martín still finds it strange to have Palermo referred to as a different entity. He’d felt it as a persona, that’s true, a different kind of mask he needed to put on while they were in there, but it was still him, it was still Martín inside. 

“Palermo’s a bit of an asshole, I give you that.”

“Not to be indelicate, but so is Martín. To the people that deserve it, sure, but that’s not what I mean.”

“What _do_ you mean?”

“You killed a man, Martín. You shot Arturo point blank, in the head. You could have gone for his leg, you could have incapacitated him and we could have had him locked up somewhere.”

“Oh don’t you give me the ‘we don’t hurt prisoners’ crap; he wasn’t a prisoner, he was without a doubt going to be our downfall. We were lucky you got to intercept that phone when you did, just as we were lucky that I got to stop him when I did. The weasely coward had pulled the trigger on the fake gun, just as he pulled the trigger on the real one. He would have never stopped, had I not stopped him. Were it not for his shitty aim and for Tokyo’s insistence to wear her vest whenever she was around you, she’d be dead. Or had he aimed just a little to the left _you_ would have been. Were I not to intervene when I did, the next bullet could just as well have been for you or for any one of us. I did what I had to do to protect the plan and the team.”

“But you _killed_ him.”

“I did, yes. Postponing a problem is not solving it. Does that change your opinion of me? You’ve killed too; and for far, _far_ less.”

“True. But I’m fucked up, Martín. We’ve been over this. I’m not a good person. I just didn’t expect you to be-”

“Like you?”

“Essentially.”

“Does it bother you so much that I am?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so? It would be hypocritical of me if it did.”

“Does it change anything?”

“It doesn’t. But I think I need to rearrange some things in my head.”

“Like my need for submission?”  
  
“Like that, yes. Do you still need that?”

“Yes. I’m still myself.” _Myself, though maybe just a little bit worse._ “We’re still us. I still trust you, and I need - god I hate saying the words, they seem so shallow for what it is - but I need you to take care of me like that. Is that- is that still on the table? You know I don’t need it all the time, we can go on without any of the kinky stuff if it’s what you want.”

Fuck. They’ve spent so much time apart throughout the years, and it was always easy to fall back into each other’s rhythm. It was what Martín liked about themselves the most. How could only six months drive that big of a rift between them? It did feel like they aged eight years in those eight days, and it did change them, it seems. What were rounded corners easily slipping around each other was now sharp edges that fought to overlap.

The stress of the heist itself did transform all of them. Monica was now Stockholm. Even the Inspector had helped them, and who could have seen _that_ coming? More surprising still, Sergio changed the most out of all of them. He’d finally fallen in love, finally understood the complexity of the human heart. That’s why he chose that punishment for Martín, to keep him away from Andrés; and it felt sadistic at first, unbearable, but Martín understood where it came from. The Sergio before the heist could not have come with such a punishment that was perfectly tailored to what would hurt Martín the most.

So they all grew, they all changed - but could Andrés be right? Could Palermo be that much removed from Martín? Or had he somehow had that inside him the whole time? Because Andrés was right about one thing - they were suddenly not so different. Which could only mean, Martín had the perfect way to make him understand what submission was really about.

  
***

“On your knees.” Martín is firm in his words, not a hint of hesitation, yet Andrés looks at him with a confused look in his eyes. “We’re doing things differently today. Do you trust me?” A nod. “Words, cariño. I need words.”

“Yes. Yes, I trust you.”

“Good. You know you can stop this at any time you want, right? Safeword, tell me to stop, double pat, say ‘red’; anything. You’re in control. Okay?”

Andrés nods again before he catches himself. 

“Yes.”

“Safeword?”

“Dalí.”

“Good. Now. Don’t make me say it again - get on your knees.”

Andrés does. 

He’s on his knees at the foot of the bed, Martín standing by him and looking down. It’s not the first time Andrés had been on his knees before him. It’s not even the first time he takes a more submissive stance either, but it was never like this, never in the right context. Never fully.

“Do it _right,”_ Martín’s words cut, “back straight, knees open, sit on your toes.” He does not acknowledge when Andrés follows his instructions, rearranging himself slowly. “Hands behind your back, eyes down.”

“Like this?” Andrés asks, and Martín smirks.

“Did I say you could talk? You don’t get to talk unless I tell you to.” He sees all the emotions crossing Andrés’ face, it’s anger at first, a hint of mutiny in a man so natural in his role of always giving the orders, but it’s followed by a small wave of resignation. _I’m doing it,_ he seems to be saying, but he doesn’t seem to understand.

He will, Martín is sure. Andrés doesn’t look uncomfortable, doesn’t seem to want to stop. He just doesn’t know how to take instructions - and well, that part Martín could understand too well. He’s prepared to change that.

“I can see you thinking, I can feel you rebel. And you can, you know? You can fight me, it’s your right. You can stop me, you can stop all of this. Do you want to?”

Andrés, obediently, does not speak. He shakes his head, keeping his eyes low.

“Now you sit there, and you try to be a good boy, okay? I won’t touch you until you are.” 

The thing with Andrés was- Well, there were many things. Andrés was his lover, his soulmate, his everything. Andrés had been with him for so long that Martín can barely remember who he was without him. They were in love, still, after all that time. But that was Andrés and Martín, it was who they were.

The thing with Andrés was; he was also Berlin. Just as Martín was also Palermo. But Martín understood Palermo to be a veil of ugly he needed to put on when things called for it. Berlin, though? Andrés seemed to have carried Berlin around for so long, despite hating him. And Martín could not allow that to go on. 

“Who am I? Speak.”

“You’re Mar-”  
  
 _“Who._ Am I?”

It’s as if the anchor is cut, when Andrés finally understands, letting out a sigh and shrinking just a fraction smaller.

“Palermo.”

“That’s right. I’m Palermo. And you are _nobody.”_

The sound that came from Andrés was almost pained. He let his shoulders drop, leaning to rest his head against Martín’s thigh.

“You are nobody here. You are nothing. You’re lucky I even let you touch me, and you know why I do? Hm? Look at me.” There, in his brown eyes, Martín could see the haze settling. Sooner than he was expecting it to, but it was taking hold of Andrés. “Because I want to break you. I want to use you; that’s what you need, right?”

Andrés looks hurt, he looks confused, but he still opens his mouth, seeking, leaning forward when Martín drags down the zipper of his pants. He doesn’t even take his cock out and Andrés is drooling for it. 

“Do you want it? Do you want my dick? I’ll give it to you, but only if you tell me- Who are you?”

“I’m- I’m Berlin.” 

“You’re _no one.”_

“I’m-” Andrés takes a shuddering breath, and Martín can feel the disobedience still thrash inside him. He clenches his jaw, looking at Martín, and he’s defiant.

“Say it.”

“Martín-” 

Neither of them was prepared when Martín’s backhand struck Andrés’ face, leaving his head turned, stunned into silence. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t challenge, doesn’t fight back.

“We can’t do any of this if we’re not both fully clear on who we are. We have to be honest here. You want this, you have to admit to yourself who you are.” 

_‘No’,_ Andrés’ eyes seem to shout, his brow furrowed, an understandable reaction from someone who thought so highly of himself. He’s not saying anything; Martín knows too well the battle that’s going on in his head.

“Who are you?”

He still doesn’t yield, but Martín isn’t worried. He will.

“If you’re not going to use that mouth, I think I will. Open up.”

He can see the shiver running through Andrés as he does what he’s told, even though he’s still in there, he’s still inside his head. Martín wraps his fingers in Andrés’ hair and tugs his head to where he’s taken his cock out of his pants. 

Martín used to hold to the belief that there was an undeniable power to being on your knees, worshiping cock. But in the moment? It felt like he had all the power as he stood in front of Andrés, resting one hand against the back of his head, the other lightly underneath his chin, and feeding him his cock. 

It’s a special kind of pride that swallows Martín up whenever he thinks that his is the only dick that Andrés has sucked, the only one he’s taken. He’s lucky to be this special for Andrés, he knows it and is grateful for it - but in _this_ moment? He revels in the knowledge that it’s only him. 

And maybe he thrusts a little harder than he means to, lost in the feeling of Andrés’ tongue rolling under his shaft, movements echoing against his fingers under his chin. Andrés is still new at this, new to deep throating - though, because it’s Andrés, he actively tries to get better at it - he’s fresh and eager, and Martín knows he won’t be able to feel his cock down his throat, where his fingers are barely brushing; not yet at least. But one day he will. And that day Andrés will look every bit as enrapt as he does now, beautiful even with the pained expression on his face. 

“Your mouth was made for my cock, wasn’t it? It’s what it’s good for, it’s better than letting you run that mouth like you do.”

Andrés is trying his best to keep up with the pace that Martín is setting, tears starting to run down his cheeks and mixing with the spit on his chin, but he doesn’t pull back; it’s Martín who pulls out after a harder thrust that has Andrés curl onto himself, gasping for air. 

“Color?”

When Andrés regains enough breath to speak, he says a hoarse, “Green.”

Martín smiles, sliding his cock around Andrés’ lips before pushing back in and resuming his thrusts, both hands on the nape of his neck now to keep him still. Andrés takes it, moaning, sending vibrations that spread out from Martín’s dick and settle low in his gut. 

“You think you’re so much better than everyone but you’re not, are you? You’re just a nobody, a hot mouth for me to come in - if you’re lucky. If you’re _really_ good, I’ll maybe think of coming inside that pretty ass of yours, would you like that?”

And it’s a gamble, Martín knows. They’ve only done it a couple of times before but it was always sweet, careful, not at all what he had in mind for this time. And Andrés can say no, he can stop everything and Martín would be right there, holding him and guiding him down; anything Andrés needs. Just- anything. But he’s not saying no.

Martín pulls out again after a thrust that makes his cockhead push against the soft back of Andrés’ throat, making him gag. He still cups Andrés’ head when he makes a fist in his hair, tugging his head back, forcing him to look up. He’s a sight with his puffy lips, tears streaking down his face, panting and eyes glazed over as he speaks. One word.

“Please.”

“Please what? What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me, Palermo.”

To hear those words is an entire experience for Martín; spiritual, religious, a journey in self-exploration; all of them put together and still not enough for Martín to truly process them.

“Earn it. Do it right and maybe, _maybe_ I’ll think about putting my dick in your ass.”

Andrés is panting now and Martín can barely think straight. This is- it’s intense. It’s heavy in a way that none of their scenes so far have been. Or maybe it’s because he’s the one in charge this time? Not that it’s Martín who’s truly in charge, he’s painfully aware, but it’s the first time he’s slipped into this role like this. He likes it. Way, way more than he thought he would.

“I want to break you, Andrés. I want to break you so completely, piece by piece; I want to show you how little you are. How little you have to be here.”

Martín closes his eyes, breathing in. He won’t lose himself in this, he knows he won’t, but he still tries to pull himself together. When he opens his eyes, he motions Andrés to stand, watching him fold out slowly, muscles shaking under the strain. 

The bedroom isn’t very large, but there’s a full length mirror leaning against the wall across from them and Martín knows what he’s going to do. He turns Andrés and guides him there, and he sees the realisation take hold in Andrés when he stops right in front of his reflection. It’s very fitting for them to end up there, a call back to their first time together, to how it all started. He stops Andrés, gathering his hands behind his back and holding his wrists in his hand.

“Does this look familiar?” _Slut,_ it almost escapes his lips but he still keeps it in; a hidden weapon just for his own thoughts. “Now I know you probably want me to tie you all pretty-like, just like you did for me, but you know what? You don’t deserve all that effort. You’re still going to be good and keep your hands away, clasped behind your back, aren’t you?”

Andrés still has some fight in him, Martín can feel it in the way his fists clench, but he still keeps his arms in place.

“Now. You know the rest. Eyes open.” 

Martín can’t stop the shudder running through him when he sees Andrés’ eyes - the tell-tale haze shining through the barely visible brown ring swallowed by the black of his pupils. He’s half gone already, and Martín hasn’t even touched his cock. 

“Who are you? Speak.”

“I’m-” Andrés has to clear his voice, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second before Martín gets his hand around his neck. Not squeezing, he’s merely touching just like Andrés did it that time - his fingers slightly wrapped around his long neck, feeling his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, feeling it move as he speaks. 

“I’m nothing.”

“You are. What do you want?”

“I want you, Palermo.” He grinds his hips back, against Martín’s cock and god, he has to stop himself from letting it show on his face how hard he’s trying not to react. He wants to chastise him, to stop him, but it’s hard; it’s hard to think about anything else when Andrés is looking like that, his whole body shivering under a thin sheen of sweat, eyes open wide and pleading-

“Fuck me, Palermo, I need- I need you.”

“Not yet; what do you want?”

“I want you. I want- to feel free.”

There. He said it, dropping more of his weight against Martín’s chest and he understands that this time, Andrés finally understands it.

Fuck, he can’t do this much longer. He flips Andrés around, fishing the ziptie he’s almost forgotten about from his back pocket. 

“Hands in front of you, wrists vein to vein.” He wants to hurt him, but not by giving him nerve damage. “There.” Martín removes his finger from under the tie where he’s kept it to give a bit of wiggle room, making sure to not tie him too tightly. He knows his way around ropes by now, but he wouldn’t have the patience even if it was a different kind of game than what they were playing. He pushes Andrés a bit too hard, leading him towards the bed. 

“Stay.” Andrés freezes at the foot of the bed, expectant, and Martín makes quick and clinical work of taking off his trousers and underwear, careful to not linger, to not touch. He wants to, he really does, when he sees Andrés’ cock bounce heavy when it hits the cool air, but he ignores his instinct to run his lips around it and lick the sticky drops coating the head. 

“On your hands and knees on the bed. I don’t even want to _see_ your face when I finally fuck you.” Martín’s looking at Andrés, how he scrambles to arrange himself, his bound arms not giving him enough stability. It’s not easy and Martín knows it and for a second, he thinks to cut the ties, to turn Andrés to his back, to kiss him sweetly and to tell him he loves him but no- this isn’t the game they’re playing. This isn’t what Andrés needs.

At any other time, Martín would be engaged in smitten veneration, his mouth wherever Andrés wanted it to, content - thankful, even - to just _give._ He still was, but not in a way that Andrés knew he needed. 

Martín gets lost for a second in the white of Andrés’ skin, the taught muscles of his back slightly trembling to keep position. He looks at his pert ass - hit with the clarity that he’s going to fuck him, like he’s never done it before, and that he wants, with no words attached to his thoughts, he really wants to put his mouth on him. It’s a struggle to keep from dropping to his knees, burying his face between his cheeks and eating him out until he’s nearly undone - but that’s a reward and Andrés doesn’t need a reward, not this time. Martín does get his palms on his asscheeks, pulling them apart, exposing him completely, and Andrés shudders at the renewed vulnerability.

“You get to choose now - hand or crop? The hand gives you twelve, the crop, ten.”

“Hand.” 

“Twelve it is. You’ll count out loud after each one. If you forget to, I’ll start from one.”

Martín has never done this - _this,_ not an errant spank here or there - and maybe that’s why the first blow falls harder than he anticipated. It shocks a surprised inhale from Andrés, who bows his back and holds his breath before remembering to say, ‘one’. The next comes harder still, and Martín almost forgets to wait for the words before letting his hand fall again, a little lower this time, where he knows it stings harder. 

By the time the eighth and ninth blows land, Andrés’ whole body is shivering. He’s never lost count, not once, not even when he couldn’t stop his moans from turning into cries, but Martín still has to ask- 

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Just a little more.” Martín gives into gentleness, just for that moment before it’s gone. “But you can take it. You can take all of this, and more.”

And if Andrés wasn’t so lost in all that’s happening, maybe Martín would find it more difficult to slip back into it, but as it is, with Andrés shuddering moans under his palm, his cock bouncing between his legs, leaking thick strings of precome to the mattress, he knows he doesn’t need to stop. So he doesn’t, palm landing heavy on an already angry-red blotch of skin on the top of Andrés’ thigh, and Martín feels it in his cock, he feels like he’s getting, impossibly, even harder. 

“Ten.” Andrés’ voice is shaking like the rest of his body, but he doesn’t tense up, he doesn’t try to move away. He just holds himself still, muscles dancing under his skin with the strain, but he keeps position, presenting himself with maybe just a hint of pride under the obedient demeanor.

Two more, and Martín lets his palm land in quick succession over yet another sensitive spot, not pausing to let Andrés count - which he does, immediately after the twelfth hit lands, as clear as his voice can manage. There, done; Martín was done and it was gorgeous. He keeps the praise he feels inside him, a wave of warmth and love that’s getting lodged in his throat, stopping all the soft words from soothing the hot red blotches that spread like watercolor on Andrés’ ass.

Martín allows themselves a short respite as he works Andrés open with his fingers. He takes his time - this is still new for Andrés, and Martín doesn’t really want to hurt him - but does not allow Andrés to change position, to make himself more comfortable. He knows his joints must be burning with pain by now, he can see his hands tremble to keep himself up, so as soon as he’s satisfied, he pushes up, slicks his cock and stops. He stops, taking a series of long breaths and feels like he’s getting high on the rarefied air.

“I’m going to fuck you now.” He says - he warns - and Andrés’ hips buck against nothing when the words land. “You could be anybody; just a warm, tight hole for me to fuck in. Now, this doesn’t mean you should be quiet, no. I want to hear what I’m doing to you. I want you to take it, and to thank me for the privilege.” 

Andrés drops to his elbows when Martín’s cockhead breaches him, letting his head hang down between his shoulders as Martín presses in until he’s bottomed out. He’s fucking Andrés, and it feels every bit as surreal as it did the first time and the second, and every time after that.

It was never like this with Andrés, just chasing his release; it’s always been a dance with them, a give and take. This time though, Martín lets himself go like he never would have dared. He’s grateful for the thorough preparation; he slides in easy and it’s obvious from the curve in Andrés’ spine that it’s _good._ Were he a different person - were he truly Palermo - he would have pushed Andrés to that mattress, hand pinning his neck down and he’d have ridden him until he was raw. And it’s not easy to find the balance but he does; Andrés deserves nothing less.

It’s still rougher than usual, this is _fucking_ to the usual way he carefully made love to Andrés; his hands are firmly hooked around the jut of his hips, pulling him back from where he’s pushed him with each thrust instead of roaming up and down his body in worship, in reassurance. The red smudges on his ass cheeks, where his palm had made such blushing shapes, are surely itching and he brushes a rough palm against them, earning a hiss and a moan from below. Sad thing about using a hand, the marks didn’t last. It would take much more, or a different kind of implement to get all the pretty welts or even the bruises - Martín makes a note to bring that up another time. 

Because they will be doing this again, Martín is sure.

It may seem like he’s being selfish when he’s pumping into Andrés like that, in a single-minded race he knows he’ll win, but it’s still all about Andrés. Andrés, who thinks he’s Berlin, who thinks he _has_ to be him. But he’s not. He doesn’t have to be. 

Too soon, Martín feels it, spurred on by the cut moans he fucks out of Andrés; he feels he’s getting to the end of the race. He wants to take Andrés along but he won’t touch him, and Andrés can’t quite come like that, Martín knows it, he couldn’t even without having his mind as drunk-heavy as it was. And for the first time in so long, Martín comes alone, selfishly burying himself deeper with the last thrusts, digging his fingers painfully in the skin of Andrés’ thighs as he’s pumping him full before pulling out, panting and trying to hang on to a bit of sanity.

He’s drunk for a second, looking at the white rivulet of come dribbling down Andrés’ thigh; it’s obscene, it’s so dirty and he hates that he loves it so much. He can’t stop himself and his fingers are right there, running through the slickness, spreading it around, making a mess. Andrés is a mess - no, _Berlin_ is a mess.

“How does it feel?” Martín’s voice is shakier than he expected it to be, but it’s still firm, he’s still Palermo. “To know you are nothing but the tight hole I pumped my come in? Does it make you feel powerful?”

Andrés is too far gone for words, he’s panting and shaking his head against the sheets. _Soon, love; very soon._

“Do you want to come?”

Andrés lets out a pained, muffled whine from where his face is buried in the sheets.

“Words.”

“Yes, yes please, let me come, please.”

“What makes you think you’ve earned it? I should just leave you here, face down, ass up, hard and leaking, until you cool off and go soft because you’ve already fulfilled your purpose. Do you want that?”

“No.”

“One last time - who are you?”

“I’m nothing.” It’s a whisper, but it’s enough.

Martín lets out a shuddering breath, trying to signal to his body to let go of all the adrenaline. He knows it’s not that easy, it can take hours to come down fully, but he knows it’s done. He leans against Andrés’ back, placing a kiss against his spine, followed by another and another, until he reaches the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“You’ve been so good, love.” 

Andrés relaxes, sliding his hips back against the mattress, barely resisting the urge to grind once he touches the fabric. Martín pulls at his shoulder and Andrés slowly turns to his back. He looks absolutely wrecked, but his face is finally relaxed and there’s a certain stillness and openness to him that Martín hasn’t seen in a while. And there’s _tears._ Nothing could have prepared Martín for the sight of Andrés so far gone that he’d been quietly crying just from overstimulation.

“Are you okay?”

Andrés nods weakly.

“Both in here,” Martín kisses the top of his head, “and out here?” he barely grazes his fingers around his outer thigh. Andrés nods again.

“Use words, love.”

“Yes. I’m good.”

Martín gives him a lazy, sweet smile, going in for a kiss. He’s gentle, telling Andrés that the scene is over, that he’s been good, he’s done excellent.

He cuts the ziptie with the pair of scissors he’d left on the nightstand.

“Do you want to come now? Or do you want me to just hold you? Maybe talk?”

“Talk later, make me come now.”

“Whatever you want, love. What do you want; hands, mouth or ass?” 

“Honestly, keep talking like that and it just might do it. Anything, just-”

Martín doesn’t wait for more, he slides down Andrés’ body, stopping where his cock had left a slick mess, and takes him into his mouth. A part of him wants Andrés to take the reigns, to hold his head just like Martín has held his and to fuck in his mouth, taking his own pleasure, but Andrés was clearly in no position for anything more than weak twitches and sharp moans. 

It’s quick, and Martín wishes he could use his mouth to talk instead, showering Andrés with all the praise he so obviously deserves, but he makes it his purpose to take that route in the future. Right now, he’s working Andrés’ cock, cradling his balls, toying with the idea of sliding one finger inside him and getting a sharp flash of arousal at the thought of running through his own come inside. He moans at the thought, at the way the heat makes his spent dick twitch, and Andrés moans in turn, finally getting enough in him to take over and thrust in Martín’s mouth. 

This, Martín knows and he takes with a practiced ease; he knows precisely how far he can let Andrés thrust before he chokes, he knows exactly what Andrés needs and when, only by the sounds he makes and the tension in his thighs. He’s ready when he feels Andrés’ balls raise and twitch, and he relaxes his mouth to the staccato thrusts that pulse hotly at the back of his throat. 

Andrés comes down slowly, still shivering in Martín’s arms when he goes to capture his mouth in a kiss, and Martín holds him until he’s collected enough to speak.

“That was-” Andres concludes for the longest time, not quite able to settle on what it was. "Enlightening."

“Did I go over any limits? I’m sorry about that slap.”

“No, it was- It was strangely good.” He thinks. “In the moment.”

Andrés doesn’t need to say the words; Martín feels it in his eyes and in his touch, but he still says them though.

“Thank you.”

“If you need time to process, we can talk in the morning. Now, hydration, aloe and cuddling. Food if you need it.”

Andrés though, he just nods. Tomorrow it is. It’s hard to leave Andrés like that, all dazed and curled in sharp angles against the sheets as he goes to get some water and the cream. When he returns, Andrés is almost asleep, but dutifully complies with all Martín’s instructions and takes his soothing hands with content hums. No words, not yet, but they’re sure to come in the morning. 

Martín has one thing to add, though.

“I was thinking next time I go in quite the opposite direction. Just because you’ve been so good and you deserve a reward - all the rewards I can give you. Also? I love you. I love you so much cariño. Thank you.”

Andrés just nods, weakly, before drifting peacefully to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://dormarunt.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if there is a part 2?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kiss me on the mouth and set me free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113351) by [brownest_goldfish_intheair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownest_goldfish_intheair/pseuds/brownest_goldfish_intheair)




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